Crowley Gets a New Look
by OneThousandBooksLater
Summary: Continues a theme from my longer mindmovie-scriptish story, You Can Stay At My Place If You Like. A trifle steamy. Probably went too Bill Gibson on the costume descriptions, but it was so much fun. [AO3 version of this story has illustrations. Same nick: OneThousandBooksLater]
1. Crowley Gets a New Look

Crowley Gets a New Look

Surprisingly busy in Aziraphale's bookshop, given that it's Friday and close to tea time. Bell jingles and Crowley enters . . . Makes An Entrance might be more accurate. All heads turn, and several books drop to the floor. A wave of temptation and desire roils through the room as if someone has uncorked a bottle of a particularly lascivious perfume. Were Anathema here to employ AuraVision, she'd see a storm of flaring shades of purple. Crowley's hair is now a russet mane flowing to his shoulders. The angel Raphael would have immediately started looking for a new stylist had she been there to see it. Black shearling and cashmere overcoat so haut it could sail into the stratosphere all on its own power. Black silk scarf in Escher's snakes pattern, tied in a Parisian knot. Tailored Italian black striped slacks perfectly meet tasseled snakeskin pumps. Maroon silk socks. Black gloves worthy of a serial killer. Carrying his cobra-headed walking stick from the 1800s. Oscar Wilde joins the Mafia. But it works.

_Crowley? Oh good Lord . . ._

Aziraphale gets control of himself and approaches.

_There's a bottle of chenin blanc on the table in the back room. I just got it today. Perfect for an autumn evening. You're welcome to go back and open it. If you'd like._

_Sounds just "tickety-boo," Angel. See you there shortly?_

Crowley unbuttons his overcoat as he saunters toward the back room in a manner that would have had a top catwalk model chewing the carpet. All eyes follow him as if attached by latex strings. A tall black woman and her shorter sandy-haired companion regard one another speculatively after this vision has gone into the back room and out of sight. They link arms as they leave the shop, possibly to plan a weekend of apparel shopping.

_I'm very sorry, everyone. I must close now._

Aziraphale starts shooing reluctant customers toward the door. A portly gray-haired Minister claps Aziraphale on the shoulder as he passes and murmurs,

_You'd be a fool not to, my lad._

After making a quick search to be sure no one is hiding somewhere in the stacks, Aziraphale locks the doors, flips the sign to "Closed," and pulls the shades. Hustles into the back room . . .

Crowley is sprawled atop a dainty Victorian horsehair settee as if it were a park bench, glass of wine in hand. Overcoat is tossed to the side, revealing Crowley wearing a charcoal v-neck pullover (probably from an Italian designer and knit from some sinfully rare and fine fleece) that softly hugs his body before dropping in a gentle fold just short of his favorite belt, the one with the carved black jade snakehead. A touch of color from a maroon silk undershirt. Still wearing the Valentino glasses that he likes so much, but now also sporting a large oval onyx signet ring engraved with his serpent sigil, and a black Patek Philippe chronograph, with a special dial for that one place where the time is always Too Late.

_Crowley!_

_Decided it was time for a new look_.

The demon takes off his glasses and gestures with them toward Aziraphale's collection of Wilde first editions on a nearby shelf.

_Thought I'd try something more Oscar Wilde-ish this time around. Do you like it? _

_Yes!_

Crowley takes a sip of wine.

_Does it perhaps tempt you into giving me a kiss?_

Aziraphale perches on the edge of the settee, facing Crowley.

_Temptation accomplished._

One hand sliding through the demon's hair, the angel delivers a loving, thorough kiss. And then, gesturing to pull down a minor miracle, sends Crowley's clothing neatly off to the corner valet. Kisses Crowley's bare shoulders. Runs hands over the demon's silky black chest fluff. Gently kisses nipples, flanks, belly. Slides off the settee and onto his knees between Crowley's legs. Encircles an arm around Crowley's hip and lays his head on Crowley's thigh.

Crowley drops his glasses onto the carpet and runs his hand through Aziraphale's fluffy lambswool hair.

Aziraphale gives the tip of Crowley's erection a wet, icy kiss.

_Unggggkkkkk! _

Crowley's back arches, hair spilling over the back of the settee, as his body goes rigid and his toes curl up. The wine glass falls to the carpet. Crowley & Aziraphale had discovered that celestial bodies don't wait around for orgasm (which our irreverent pair now calls "Divine Ecstasy"), but get right to it if they feel one coming down the track. And they can keep it up for hours. And without any unpleasant secretions or messy stains.

The angel puts his hand atop Crowley's.

_Easy, Dear, you're pulling my hair._

Crowley manages to release his fingers from clenching Aziraphale's wooly locks. The angel 's soft, cool hand moves to caress Crowley's thigh and flank as his lips and tongue continue to try out various delightful things to keep Crowley aloft. The demon's hot skin feels so good. It's going to be a long night of Divine Ecstasy.


	2. Snake Hips

Snake Hips

Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting on his new black leather couch, watching a documentary on the flat screen about the history of jazz dance. They had a nice light dinner at the one of Mayfair's recent crop of interesting restaurants, and are now working their way through a sumptuous vintage port. Show ends. Crowley clicks the remote.

_Absolutely incredible, the things humans get up to, eh, Crowley?_

_Age does not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite variety._

_You came up with that nifty when we were at the Globe, helping out Shakespeare with his Hamlet, didn't you?_

"_Nifty?"_

_Shakespeare liked it so much he used it in Cleopatra. _

_Let's hear it, Aziraphale. What's a "nifty."_

_Just a bit of slang from _(Thinks a moment) . . . _early 20__th__ century. Means quick-witted. Stylish. A bon mot. It's a compliment, Crowley, so don't get shirty._

Crowley leans over, puts an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, gives him a hot peck on the cheek.

_Don't mind me. You can spank me later, if you like._

_Really my dear._

Crowley leans back and has another sip of port.

_They don't dance much in Heaven, do they._

_Not at all._

_Hell really got into disco. Gruesome. They were all churning about like maniacs on the floor for a couple of decades. Seemed as if I had to dance, or else, every time I checked in. Not as bad as having to sit through The Sound of Music, but damned close._

They sip their way through their port. Crowley's face gradually takes on the expression of a boa constrictor eyeing a plump little monkey. He gulps his last bit of port and magics his glass onto the table. Gets up and kneels astraddle Aziraphale, balancing his backside on Aziraphale's always closed thighs.

_Crowley . . ._

Crowley speaks while he's undoing Aziraphale's belt and fly. Aziraphale, surprised but willing, leans back on the couch. Looks at the port in his hand and magics it onto the table.

_Remember the bit about Snakehips Johnson in the show we just watched? Saw him many times, you know. At the Café De Paris._

_Saw his show once myself. An amazingly lithe performer, although I was never into bebop._

Crowley, a man on a mission, gets control of himself before he says anything about "bebop." Reaches into Aziraphale's boxers and extracts the angel's penis. Gives it a light little caress.

_Crowley, I could simply undress._

_We'll get to that soon enough._

Crowley has undone his snakehead buckle and unzipped his own fly. Aziraphale's erection is almost there . . . Crowley gives it a bit more massage with his wonderfully heated hand and fingers.

_Check this out, Angel._

Crowley withdraws his own penis and tilts it toward Aziraphale's. As if it has a life of its own, it coils and snakes around Aziraphales in a gentle spiral. So muscular. So supple. And toasty as a heated stone.

_Oh dear lord . . ._

Aziraphale only has a moment to laugh before he catapults himself forward, grabbing Crowley around the shoulders and pulling him atop himself as they fall over on the couch.

_Then_ their clothing vanishes.

Divine Ecstasy ensues.


	3. Roast Beef with Divine Ecstasy Gravy

Sunday Roast Beef with Divine Ecstasy Gravy [with one little hat tip to P.G. Wodehouse]

Crowley and Aziraphale sitting across from one another in a cozy booth, enjoying a traditional Sunday dinner at an exclusive little club that still knows how to do it right: prime roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and about a gallon of gravy. Fresh yeast rolls and butter. Crowley has drenched the obligatory vegetable with enough gravy to make it unrecognizable in order to get it down. Aziraphale is trying not to gaze in astonishment as Crowley, normally a picky eater and more of a drinker, shovels in the food like an old-time stevedore loading a grain ship. Aziraphale, who prefers Continental food, has enjoyed most of his dinner but has left large portions untouched. He puts down his cutlery, wipes his lips with his napkin, and leans back against the seat. Drinks the last of his claret. Crowley wipes up a final bit of gravy with his last piece of roll, making his plate look spotless as if mopped by a St. Bernard's tongue.

_Aziraphale, if you're finished, mind if we swap plates?_

_Really, my dear. Manners! Still, sinful to waste food. And I suppose I should avoid sin._

Crowley gives him snake eyes.

_Shut it, Angel._

Aziraphale is undaunted, but switches the plates.

_Well. I apologize if I seemed critical, Crowley. Didn't mean to be. I've just never seen you enjoy your food so much before. Liquor, yes. Food, no. _

Crowley silently finishes wolfing the remainder of Aziraphale's dinner, takes a large swig of scotch. Smirks.

_A growing lad needs sustenance, Angel _

While watching this unprecedented spectacle, Aziraphale has been thinking. Fingers his waistcoat buttons, noticing that his clothing feels a bit loose. Ears begin a slow burn as he recollects Gabriel's stomach punch that was a trifle too hard to be entirely playful, and his Inspirational Management Directive: "Lose the gut, Aziraphale."

_Crowley, you're no more a growing lad than I'm an aardvark. And we don't really need food. But you've just eaten as if you were a starving python setting upon a wild pig._

_Well, I have always rather liked Sunday dinner. And it's a good excuse for a bucket of porter and scotch._

_Yes. There is that, I suppose. But. Have you been feeling more . . . _energetic_ lately?_

_Have I! Attach electrodes to my nipples, I could power all of London. Plus some suburbs._

Crowley gives Aziraphale a searching up-and-down look, focuses on his chest.

_Aziraphale. Damned if you aren't looking a bit more buff. What's up? Joined the humans at a gym or something?_

_Why in Heaven would I do something as undignified as that? The very thought! Really, Crowley._

Crowley suddenly has an _Aha!_ moment. Gulps down the last of his scotch, leans back against his booth seat back and contemplates Aziraphale.

_You don't suppose our little bouts of Divine Ecstasy are having . . . some sort of effect?_

Divine Ecstasy . . . Aziraphale's expression morphs into a naked gaze of almost painful longing. He swallows, hard. It has been a couple of days . . .

Crowley leans forward.

_Kiss me, Angel._

They lean across the tabletop and their lips meet briefly. Glacier ice and hot rocks. Aziraphale gasps and pulls back. Crowley snakes out an arm and grabs Aziraphale's shirt front, pulls him forward. Plants his open lips against Aziraphale's and slithers his tongue between them. Aziraphale jerks back as if given an electric shock.

_Unghhhh! Crowley. We need to go. Now._

Crowley releases his grasp and Aziraphale gets up and exits the booth. Steadies himself with a hand on the table top. Crowley slides out of his seat and sidles around Aziraphale. Puts his arm around Aziraphale's waist. Aziraphale holds onto the arm, and grasps Crowley's shoulder. Crowley gently steers him towards the exit as a loving husband might support his inebriated wife.

The club is popular and comparatively crowded. Not all heads resist the vulgar urge to turn and watch the couple, a significant number of diners finding Crowley positively riveting. A wave of longing and envy ripples through the room, to the annoyance of partners of various sexes. Crowley smiles snakily. Old Temptation habits die hard. Gives his ultraviolet aura one more flare as they approach the portal to the entry hallway.

Two waiters standing side by side have been watching this little performance. One elbows the other.

_Flaming. Positively flaming._

_The tall ginger looks like something out of that Oscar Wilde movie, dun'ee._

They look at one another.

_Maybe we should try a getup like that. You've got the build for it. Could be fun._

Crowley and Aziraphale only make it as far as the back seat of the Bentley.


	4. Samurai Lamb

Samurai Lamb

Bedroom in Crowley's Mayfair flat

It's been a year since The Almighty replaced Aziraphale's flaming sword with a blue-flaming katana. Aziraphale is attiring himself for an online video kendo practice session before the large flat screen in the lounge. A large mirror on rollers is nearby, to be positioned adjacent to the screen to compare and correct stances and movements.

Crowley was not at all surprised when the angel became a member of a dojo and started katana training. When something caught his fancy he pursued it doggedly despite all odds. Maskelyne's magic classes. Riding velocipedes. And that club where the "young gentlemen" met to entertain themselves by learning the gavotte . . . and some other things. Aziraphale was thrilled with his sword, and wanted to know how to use it.

Crowley had been trying for a good while to encourage Aziraphale to get up to speed on the internet, with limited success, until the angel had discovered YouTube and a dojo that offered virtual kendo instruction as well as in person practice sessions. Aziraphale had since become quite keen on computing - a miracle, that conversion, really and truly. No other word for it. Crowley wondered if it had something to do with being a keen reader, but whatever it was that enabled Aziraphale's computer skills, Crowley was no longer anxious about the angel's online presence and trusted him to set up his little online video training sessions without incident.

Aziraphale is in his boxers, about to don his tailored and completely traditional (he has standards, after all) hakama and kendogi. It generally takes him nearly half an hour, as he is meticulous that all the various knots and belts be correctly and neatly tied and the garments perfectly adjusted, even if this session is only going to be a couple of hours by himself, watching videos and practicing basics before the flat screen. He could simply magic the garments on, of course, but that seems unsporting, and so he only uses magic for a few quick touch-ups as needed. He removes his boxers and reaches for the white cotton juban just as Crowley strolls in from the kitchen with a cognac-laced cappuccino (the espresso machine is the sole kitchen appliance that sees regular use, if by "use" one means putting a cup beneath it expectantly and having it produce excellent coffee sans beans, water, cream, or cleanup).

_Whoa. Angel. You don't wear underwear beneath your costume?_

_Uniform, Crowley. _

_Hang on. Take that piece off again. Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?_

_Well, no. I'm always just me. _(Thinks a moment and pats himself.) _A bit less soft about the middle these days, perhaps._

A tiny smirk appears on Aziraphale's face despite himself. Archangel Gabriel's directive, "Lose the gut, Aziraphale," no longer smarts every time he recalls it.

Crowley puts down his coffee and steers Aziraphale before the mirror.

_Look at that, Angel. You actually have some shoulder definition. And nice pecs._

Crowley isn't wearing his jacket, just that sinfully soft Italian pullover and his elegant slacks. Slithers up and hugs Aziraphale from behind. Runs his hands through the angel's chest and belly fuzz. Nuzzles that fluffy lambskin hair, nibbles the nape of his neck.

_Crowley, that stone buckle of yours is cold as ice._

Crowley magics his belt onto the floor nearby. Continues caressing and nuzzling Aziraphale.

_How about a quickie?_

Aziraphale looks anxious for a microsecond. Kendo or Crowley? . . .

Well, Crowley, of course. What a stupid question. He reaches one arm back and grabs a handful of Crowley's russet mane, holds Crowley's wrist with his other hand, achieving a somewhat plumper and less ripped version of Michelangelo's _Dying Slave_.

Crowley's delightfully warm hand brushes over the angel's penis like a wisp of velvet. Aziraphale feels the demon's not-so-little serpent harden against his backside.

Crowley dislikes mirrors, and darkens it. Sex isn't some fucking movie, for Satan's sake. He wants to enjoy the feel and smell and taste of Aziraphale, not watch him. He's been watching him for 6,000 years.

Recollecting that long, long multi-millennia wait, Crowley pulls Aziraphale around and kisses him passionately, open mouth over Aziraphale's, exploring the angel's cool ice cream lips with his weirdly mobile tongue. Then more hot, almost burning (literally) kisses over Aziraphale's neck and shoulders . . . chest . . . nipples (Aziraphale jerks a bit at those and arches his back) . . . flanks . . . belly . . . loins . . The demon's hands are like heated stones as they grasp and stroke the angel's back and waist as he slowly sinks to his knees before the angel. Clutching Aziraphale's backside with a grip like hot talons, he closes his mouth over the angel's penis, tongue flicking, licking, taut lips massaging . . .

Aziraphale is oozing rapidly into jelly. How he loves it when Crowley touches him. He sinks slowly into a collapse onto his back on the floor, arms outstretched. Fortunately he'd insisted Crowley install a nice, thick, black and gold Tabriz.

Crowley raises a hand and snaps his fingers. His clothing disappears into a heap on the floor. He pushes himself up and slides his body against Aziraphale's chest as his warm and supple not-so-little serpent coils itself around Aziraphale's now rigid cock. Aziraphale's arms fold around him in a tight embrace. The pair simultaneously gasp and stiffen, going rigid in Divine Ecstasy.

Which turns out not to be a quickie after all.


	5. A Restful Interlude

A Restful Interlude

Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting sprawled on the carpet in the back room of the bookstore, supported by two giant pillows propped against the armchair. Crowley is curled alongside Aziraphale, his mop of russet hair on the angel's shoulder, an arm across the angel's chest. He is thinking how soothing he finds the angel's glacially cold body, and his cool, gentle hands. Aziraphale for his part is relaxing in the warmth radiating from the demon, thinking how beautiful he finds those golden amber eyes . . .

Crowley glides himself atop Aziraphale with his backside between the angel's outstretched legs. Crowley isn't aware of it – he is what he is, and doesn't think about his appearance - but an observer might note with interest that Crowley's butt is firm and taut as a green peach. Although not fuzzy. He makes himself comfortable against Aziraphale's chest, leans his head back against the angel's shoulder, and reaches his arms up, running his fingers through the angel's frizzy lambskin hair.

_Tickle me, Aziraphale._

The pair had discovered on a previous occasion that Crowley's nipples were even more sensitive than Aziraphale's. (_"Perhaps that's why I always rather enjoyed crawling around on my stomach?"_) The angel strokes Crowley along his belly and flanks and begins to softly massage and tweak his pectorals and nipples. Crowley sighs with pleasure and lets his arms go limp. He arches his back and presses his muscular buttocks against Aziraphale's crotch, doing a lazy serpentine wiggle against the angel's rapidly firming cock.

[Nope, not going there. Celestial bodies lack certain lower orifices and functions. No need for them if you don't have to eat or reproduce.]

Aziraphale continues his gentle massage until Crowley's nipples are like steel ball bearings, then slides one hand downward and grasps the demon's not-so-little serpent. It gives a supple writhe as the angel's thumb gently brushes over its tip.

_Unnnnhuhhhhhh. . . _Crowley succumbs to Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale, eyes half closed, thinks how happy he is to be able to pleasure his beautiful demon. He's loved him for so, so long. He rests his head back against the pillow as if asleep, eyes closed and mouth softly open, continuing to stroke and caress Crowley until he, too, is overcome by a wave of Divine Ecstasy. The pair rests in bliss for hours, unmoving as a statue.


	6. Chapter 6 Wings, part 1

Wings 1

Edinburgh

1\. Crowley is in his Oscar Wilde, Mafioso mode, slouched in a small armchair as he waits for Aziraphale to emerge in his new tailored clothes. Aziraphale comes out of the dressing room, handsome in light blue and gold. Blue Shetland tweed overcoat of a unique but perfect cut and fit; flawless cream trousers, just the right length; Fair Isle sleeveless v-neck jumper; soft pale gold bespoke dress shirt, worn open neck. The staff had talked Aziraphale out of a plaid shirt with the jumper, coordinating that for him with a new doeskin velvet waistcoat instead. He is, however, wearing plaid socks.

_Do you like this? I thought a more casual look would be appropriate for Tadfield. There's also a nice suit, but saving that for London._

Crowley has been giving Aziraphale the up-and-down, and does so again.

_Beautiful, Angel. Perfect. _

He rises from his chair, walks over to Aziraphale, slips his hand inside the jacket and around the angel's waist, and gives him a firm kiss.

The designer and tailor have been down this road before, and are much too courteous and urbane to give one another side eye. Instead, Aziraphale's innocent pleasure is so radiant they're congratulating themselves on a job very well done.

Still focused solely upon Aziraphale, Crowley purrs,

_I think we should drive back to London today. We can make it by early evening._

2\. Crowley's Mayfair flat

Crowley and Aziraphale enter, put down various bags and packages, and kick off their shoes. Instead of heading for the lounge and the scotch decanter, Crowley puts an arm around Aziraphale's waist and escorts him to the bedroom. Once inside, Crowley magics his black cashmere and shearling overcoat into the closet, but stops Aziraphale from removing his.

_Hang on. Let me undress you._

A snap of the fingers, and Crowley's clothes are replaced by his silk dressing gown. It's cut from the rest of the bolt of black silk jacquard with the Escher snake pattern that he selected for his neck scarf, lined with a Thai silk in crimson weft and black warp that presents interesting shadows as it drapes and folds. He escorts Aziraphale over to the foot of the bed.

Slips his hands onto Aziraphale's shoulders and shrugs off his overcoat, which magically appears neatly hung in the closet. Slips the sweater vest over the angel's head, sends it off to the valet with a wave of his hand. Unbuckles Aziraphale's trousers and lets them slide down around his ankles before likewise sending them, socks, and undergarments off to neatly join the sweater. Aziraphale is now clad only in his dress shirt. Crowley sends the cufflinks clattering, unbuttons the shirt from the bottom up, then slips it down across the angel's shoulders but not off, pushing the angel's arms behind him as if he's tied up. St. Sebastian in a bespoke shirt instead of a loincloth.

Aziraphale flares his snowy wings, folding them into an "X" behind his shoulders and hips as he floats onto his back above the bed, still keeping his arms behind him, erection stiff as a pole.

Crowley slips out of his dressing gown, sends it softly sliding it over Aziraphale's torso on its way to the floor. His raven wings open as he levitates himself atop Aziraphale, talon-like hands clutching the angel's buttocks as he pulls their hips together, his serpentine penis spiraling around the angel's. He glides his body against the angel's and encircles an arm around the angel's back between his wings, hugging him tightly. Delivers an open-mouthed kiss against Aziraphale's neck, like the vampire demon lover of myth sucking at the carotid, russet hair spilling across the angel's shoulder like a spray of blood.

Aziraphale's arms fall limp, the shirt drops away through his wings, his back arches, and he's now Bernini's St. Theresa as Divine Ecstasy consumes the pair. Crowley's wings lazily keep them aloft. For hours.

3\. The two are lying side by side on the bed, holding hands, heads turned as they smile at one another.

_That was fun._

Aziraphale contemplates Crowley as if studying him for a portrait.

_You have such beautiful eyes, Crowley. Why do you insist upon wearing those dark glasses?_

_They scare humans, Aziraphale. I have a hypothesis that it has something to do with primates and large predatory snakes evolving together in the treetops. At any rate, my snake eyes seem to make some part of the human brain very uneasy. Monkeys, too. Sometimes when I was feeling a need for a cheap thrill I'd go to the zoo and scare the liver out of the little bastards._

_Humans don't like spiders much, either, do they. Likely the same reason, do you suppose?_

_Or scorpions. Or centi- . . . cen-_

And here things go sideways at warp speed. Crowley stiffens, his eyes go unfocused and unseeing, breathing accelerates to short pants as if he cannot catch his breath, agony creeps over his face.

_Crowley! What's wrong!_

Crowley doesn't hear the angel. He's having a flashback to one of the little disciplinary sessions Hastur and Ligur subjected him to. The one when they had brought the pair of centipede demons that were taller than Crowley. Crowley had struggled and writhed and morphed into snake, back to human, snake, human . . . but nothing could get him out of the grip of those wriggling razor chitinous legs and venomous fangs. He had screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed . . .

(to be continued)


	7. Chapter 7 Wings, part 2

Wings 2

_Crowley! Crowley!_

Aziraphale is shaking him. He caresses Crowley's face, chest, and shoulders with hands as soft as cold compresses, then clutches him to his chest and holds him as tightly as he can.

_Don't breathe, Crowley. Stop breathing. Stop breathing._

Crowley's panting subsides into ragged gasps as he struggles to control himself. Finally his panic ceases.

_God damn it!_

Radiating rage and humiliation like a furnace, Crowley wrenches himself free of Aziraphale's arms and turns away. Celestial bodies can't shed tears, but they can cry, and Aziraphale breaks down. Crowley hears the angel's sob, and turns back to him in alarm. His anger evaporates into shame that he's wounded Aziraphale. He hugs the angel to his chest as one would comfort a child, arms around the angel's head and shoulders.

_Aziraphale! Forgive me. Please. Please. Don't cry. Don't breathe._

Aziraphale's shoulders stop shaking as he stops breathing. He's about to say, _"No need for forgiveness, I love you, Crowley"_ . . . but pauses and considers that that's not what the demon needs – wants - to hear.

_I forgive you._

Then he has an inspiration. Gently pushing himself away from Crowley, he raises himself on an elbow, reaches out and caresses Crowley's face with a featherlike touch . . . over his forehead, down his cheek . . . and then pulls Crowley's head towards him and plants a soft kiss on the demon's forehead. Breathes a puff of air into his face.

_Think about whatever it is you like best._

Stress drains from Crowley as water from a sieve, and his face relaxes into a smile.

_It worked! Well, I'll be damned!_

_Well I'm blessed. _(Oh, the irony.)

They gaze lovingly at one another.

_You know, Aziraphale, that deep down inside, you really are one crafty bastard. _

Aziraphale's smile is as broad as a barn. Crowley muses a moment.

_Do you know what I like best?_

_Crowley, you really don't need to te- . . ._

_Having sex with _you_._

Crowley shifts away a bit and spread eagles himself.

_Do me, Aziraphale._

The angel shifts himself down the bed and kneels between Crowley's legs. Flaring his wings to give him a bit of lift as he proceeds, he moves his hands upward along the inside of the demon's thighs, across loins and flanks, caressing Crowley's nipples until they're just as erect as their mutual cocks. Now floating nearly prone atop Crowley, he shifts his hips until he feels Crowley's supple penis spiral around his. Moves a bit from side to side to let his chest fuzz tickle Crowley. Pushes his cool hands outward along the demon's shoulders and outstretched arms. They interlock their fingers. Aziraphale has just enough time to place a passionate kiss upon Crowley's already open mouth before Divine Ecstasy consumes them. An observer might think them frozen in time, but the angel's snowy wings continue to move as imperceptibly as a clock's hands, keeping him lightly afloat above his demon lover for the remaining hours of the night and well past dawn.


	8. Boy Toy

The bookshop's back room. Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting side by side, on the restored Persian carpet (now as plush and thick as it was when new, thank you, Antichrist Adam) propped up by big pillows against the base of Aziraphale's armchair. Crowley isn't wearing a stitch, Aziraphale is in his ratty old cut velvet dressing gown. The decanter of scotch is within reach on the floor, and they each have a cut crystal glassful in hand. Their free hands are resting upon each other's thigh.

_Crowley, have you ever considered what Divine Ecstasy might be like if we were female? We could be, of course. You were a woman back in Canaanite days, weren't you? _

_Checking me out, were you?_

_You were dressed as a female, Crowley. What was I supposed to think?_

_You know perfectly well that humans are pretty fluid in gender roles. Who knows what I was hiding under my robes? _

_Well, were you? Female?_

_You're not going to believe this._

_Waiting._

_You will perhaps recall that back in that day Beelzebub was Beelzebul, the Prince of the Palace. Fancied me._

_Oh for Heaven's sake, Crowley! You're pulling my wings._

_No. I'm not. She was male back then._

Aziraphale digests this for some moments.

_I'm not sure I want to continue this conversation any further._

_Well, being a woman wasn't my idea. Remember what I told you about Hell being all for disobedience and rebellion generally, but not individually? Nobody disobeys Beelzebub. Ever. I wasn't merely in a panic about the end of good times on Earth when Armageddon was imminent, you know. Beelzebub wasn't specific about what my future held if I failed in my Antichrist mission. She just gave me some strong hints and let my imagination do the rest. _(Crowley takes a long swig of scotch) _And it did, let me tell you. Can you pour me a refill?_

_Certainly._

_Let's just say my life as a Philistine concubine was made pretty exciting. _

Crowley is silent as he works his way through more of his scotch.

_With that little history of mine, I'm just not sure I could deal with you as stallion to my mare, Aziraphale. _(Holds up a hand to stop Aziraphale from replying.) _Nor could I do the reverse to you. Would seem sacrilegious or something. Even though, as a demon, I'm supposed to be into that sort of thing. Just not sure I could do a Beelzebul act._

Aziraphale notices that Crowley is starting to breathe a bit too rapidly.

_Crowley! Stop breathing!_

Crowley does so, shudders, and gets himself back under control. Finishes his scotch, holds out his glass.

_More, please?_

Aziraphale obliges, but continues to watch the demon closely.

_So, Angel, if you were hoping for some hot vajayjay action, I don't think I can help you._

_Shut it, Crowley, for Heaven's sake! Really, my dear._

Crowley smiles sinfully.

_Nor could I bear to stick it to you, either, considering the "nice" memories I'm packing around. So forget about swinging like Michael._

_Crowley, if you persist in this, I'm getting dressed and going for a bike ride. A long ride. You can sit here all by yourself._

_No! I'll be good. Especially if you kiss me._

Aziraphale's anxiety and exasperation drain away and he obliges Crowley with a loving smooch. They both put down their scotch and continue, with increasing passion. Crowley breaks away, regards Aziraphale.

_I never experienced Divine Ecstasy with Beelzebub. Just so you know. You were the first._


	9. Green Sorbet

Aziraphale bustles into the bookshop's back room, fresh from shooing out the dratted customers and locking up the shop for the day. He's looking forward to a glass of wine with Crowley. Stops dead in his tracks. Crowley is stretched out against the big pillows propped on an arm of the settee, doing his Manet's _Olympia_ pose. Only now he actually looks very much like Olympia. _She_ looks like Olympia.

Aziraphale is speechless, taking in the view. A pearly-skinned female with flaming hair the equal of War's mane. Rosy pink nipples on pert breasts. But despite the pink nipples, these aren't the young breasts of Manet's Parisian prostitute. This is a dangerous woman. Who would either give human males the erection of a lifetime or make their giblets want to retract right back safely inside where they came from, depending upon where they set the dial on kinks and death wishes. The long pointed talon-like nails lacquered the shade of dried blood and gold are disturbing enough. But it's the desert viper eyes under pointed brow ridges that probably contribute most to the overall effect. Zuul, were she peeping from around a corner, would likely be nodding approval.

Aziraphale holds up his hands, palms outward, as he slowly approaches. While the demon is radiating lust like a hot stove, the angel detects a subharmonic of rage. This is a serpent about to strike. Aziraphale stops, just outside of arm's reach.

_He hurt me, Aziraphale. Every time._

The angel continues to gaze, dry-mouthed, at what his beloved demon has become. Then, softly as one might speak to a nervous wild animal:

_I have something that I bought in London last weekend. This might be just the time for it._

Never taking his eyes off Crowley, he carefully circles the room until reaching the small refrigerator where they keep their champagne. Reaches into the little freezer compartment and pulls out what appears to be a green ice cream container. Magics a long-handled silver spoon from the cutlery cabinet. Opens the container and drops the lid aside. Magics his clothing off to the valet. Still moving carefully, using a foot he pushes the hassock close to the settee. Scoops a small spoonful of some icy-looking green dessert and holds it in front of the demon's lips while he carefully sits down on the hassock.

_It's cannabis sorbet. Lime. Thought you might prefer something icier than ice cream._

Crowley opens her lips and lets the angel feed her.

_Do you like it?_

A short nod. Aziraphale continues to slowly feed dainty spoonfuls until the container is empty. He can sense that the demon has relaxed.

_Another container? I bought a half dozen._

Crowley shakes her head and smiles snakily.

_No. Feeling mellow. I see you're not, though. Like what you see?_

_I always love whatever I see about you, Crowley. You're always wonderful._

_Kiss me._

He does. Shivers. The demon continues to let one arm dangle, but puts the other along the top of the settee. Aziraphale places his cool hands on her shoulders, nuzzles and kisses her neck in all the spots she likes. The demon arches her back and gasps as his hands gently massage her breasts. Her nipples quickly become hard as cherry pits. He strokes her flanks, nuzzles and licks her navel. The demon opens her thighs, letting his icy lips and tongue tickle her already erect clitoris. Aziraphale breathes in her scent . . . frankincense? That's ironic. Crowley starts to moan.

_Aziraphale. Get inside me. Now._

The angel perches on his knees between her outstretched legs. He's never done this before, but it seems a pretty straightforward procedure. Literally. Supporting himself with his hands on opposite sides of her waist, he eases himself inside. Slippery, but tight. He fits, just. Crowley rotates her hips while moving them rapidly back and forth.

_Unnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh!_

The demon is now arched as if electrocuted, long legs aloft, eyes wide but unseeing. Aziraphale feels wave after pulsing wave of muscle against his erection. He collapses atop Crowley, ecstatic face buried against her neck, hands slipped under her shoulder blades as he clutches her body tightly to his. Crowley keeps her arms outstretched. A good thing, because she has ripped holes in the upholstery and one of the pillows.

They appear as if frozen in time while this bout of Divine Ecstasy consumes them for hours.


	10. Scent

From _Last Tango in Tadfield:_

Crowley parks the Bentley, but just as they go to open the doors to get out, Aziraphale takes a deep breath as if trying to smell some strange perfume.

_I say, Crowley, are you aware that your evil aroma is particularly musky tonight?_

_Evil? What's evil about it? What are you trying to say, Aziraphail? I need another shower 30 minutes after we just took one? That's not very nice of you. _

_Perhaps "evil" isn't the right word. That night before Armageddon, when you detected that the hellhound had found its master. Gabriel and Sandalphon came into the bookshop shortly after you'd left. Sandalphon noticed your aroma. Said he smelled something "evil." _

_What makes you think it wasn't the hellhound? _

_Well, only you could detect that. But I'm always aware of the way you smell. I like it. A sort of light combination of smoking aloes, whiskey, and rut. The irony of calling it an "evil" aroma rather tickled me. I told them it was due to the Jeffrey Archer books._

_Well that's just great. You think I smell like a burnt down roadhouse. Are you sure you want to go in with me?_

_Oh Crowley, don't be an ass. I said I like the way you smell. Let's not have unpleasantness. Shall we dance?_

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley are relaxing in bed in Crowley's Mayfair flat. Crowley is half sitting against a couple of pillows, his arms folded above his head. Aziraphale has his head on the demon's shoulder, one arm on his chest, one leg across Crowley's hips.

_So tell me more about my evil aroma, Aziraphale. I'm dying to know._

_Well. _(Aziraphale inhales a deep breath, contemplates a moment.) _Fragrant wood smoke, generally. A sort of pungent mix of cedar, aloes, sandalwood and such. Whiskey, if you've been drinking. _(Nuzzles Crowley's armpit hair) _And you positively stink of sex. I'm surprised humans don't follow you around with nostrils flared._

_Humpf. Although that might explain some past incidents . . ._

Aziraphale gives Crowley a lick.

_And your skin tastes peppery – a sort of mix of cayenne and black pepper. _

The angel raises himself and leans over Crowley to give him a kiss.

_You have bitter almond breath. Like cyanide. With an overtone of ozone. You know, that rather zingy smell the air has after a lighting strike._

Aziraphale moves so he is now atop Crowley, hands in the demon's hair.

_And when you're a woman, your vagina smells of frankincense. _

_Beelzebul used to use me to defile the altars in temples and churches._

Aziraphale recollects Crowley describing walking across the consecrated ground of a church aisle as similar to walking across a hot sandy beach in bare feet. The image of Crowley being roasted alive atop the stones of an altar comes unavoidably into his mind. He remains still and silent, not wanting to stir up hideous memories any further.

_Yessss. You can imagine what that was like, Aziraphale._

Beneath him, Crowley has morphed into a woman, a serpent demon radiating the heat of hate and despair. Aziraphale is now gazing into unblinking slit pupils within irises the color of desert sand, beneath delicately horned brows. A thick black forked tongue slowly slips between the demon's soft rosy lips and flicks at the angel. Unflinching, he calmly returns her gaze and opens his mouth slightly, extends his own tongue, and licks it across his upper lip. Crowley extends her tongue further and tickles the angel's tongue and lips. Then she smiles.

_My brave, fearless Angel. That usually scares the piss out of humans. Stay on top of me. Now I'll tell you what you smell like._

She slips her ruby talons through his lambswool hair and pushes his head against her shoulder.

_You smell like water. Rainfall after it's picked up the scent of damp earth and forest. Melting snow. With that salty, bitter smell of the ocean. Your skin tastes dry and dusty, like sage and flint. Always reminds me of Patron tequila. Your mouth is a delicious combination of all those sweet golden wines and sherries. And you breathe ozone, too. Maybe that's an angel thing, do you think?_

Crowley writhes beneath Aziraphale and rolls him off her, then straddles his hips.

_And maybe someday we can do a little science project to see what your vajayjay smells like. But not today. _

A viperish smile, revealing points of two teeth. Aziraphale reaches up and fingers her lips open. Her fangs aren't needle sharp as a snake's, but instead have the more rounded mammalian canine shape. The rest of her teeth are human. Pushing his hand aside, she leans forward to rub her firm little breasts against his chest hair. Gently bites the carotid area of his neck, just hard enough so all her teeth are felt, but not hard enough to pinch or hurt him. Rakes her talons along his ribs and flanks, again just hard enough to let him know she could be doing much worse things, but isn't. Sits up and caresses his chest with her talons, circling and tickling his nipples until they're hard as leather. Scoots back until she's atop his thighs, wraps the talons of one hand around his testicles. Uses the claws of her other hand to drum lightly along his erection.

The angel meanwhile has been caressing her breasts until her back arches in pleasure.

_Crowley. Please. Do me._

Smiling sinfully, she places her hands on her thighs and mounts his erection. Begins to rotate and slowly flex her hips back and forth. Rhythmic interior contractions caress the angel's cock.

Aziraphale doesn't wait, knowing she'll be joining him soon enough. For the first time ever he cries out as Divine Ecstasy overtakes him. Moments later Crowley is with him. They remain for hours as if frozen in time.


	11. Upholstered Granite

Friday evening. Crowley has zoomed out of London, anxious to relax with Aziraphale in the back room of the bookshop. Parks in front of the shop, vaults out of the Bentley. He's carrying a stout shopping bag in which three bottles of cognac have been carefully wrapped. Snaps his fingers to magic the locked door open and then shut as he walks briskly in. Enters the back room.

The shopping bag drops to the carpet as his hand forgets to hold onto it, his eyes riveted upon Aziraphale. The angel is sprawled atop the big puffy pillows they keep handy on the settee, doing a superb imitation of Francois Boucher's painting of Marie O'Murphy. Crowley opens his mouth, but finds his voice has failed him.

_Do you like it? I tried transforming, and this is what I got._

Crowley takes in the angel's halo of silky palest gold curls, backside like a delicious bun, creamy thighs wide spread as she lies on her stomach on the pillows. She is so willing and very ready.

With a finger snap Crowley's clothing vanishes. Feeling almost molten with lust, he springs over to the settee, shoves a pillow out of the way, kneels between the angel's plump thighs, hands atop her satiny buttocks. But then he pauses. Crowley has never actually penetrated anyone – woman or man – before. But it was done to him plenty of times, and it was always agonizing as Hell. Until Aziraphale came along. Would he feel as good to the angel as he did to him, or would he hurt her . . .?

Sensing his hesitation and guessing the reason why, the angel raises her hips, reaches one hand back between her legs and gently grasps the demon's penis, directing its tip against her cool wet labia. Rocks back and pushes against him a bit as he slowly enters her.

_Harder Crowley. Push hard._

She rocks back and forth and wriggles her hips in counterpoint to his thrusts.

_Ohhhhhhhhh. . ._

Aziraphale feels Crowley deep inside her as she sprawls atop his thighs, then moans as Divine Ecstasy sweeps over her, rhythmic contractions milking the demon's wonderfully tight fit. Crowley succumbs a millisecond later, hands clutching the angel's delicious backside as he leans back against the big pillow on the arm of the settee. For several hours they form a tableau vivant of bliss, stilled on the surface, but a lot going on beneath.

. . .

Midnight.

_Oof. My knees have stiffened up. _

Crowley swings his legs over the edge of the settee and gets up to walk around a bit. The two then rearrange the giant pillows against the base of Aziraphale's armchair, and settle on the thick Persian carpet in a favorite comfort position, holding hands while sitting alongside one another against the pillows. Crowley examines the angel's face. Not at all girlish. A handsome woman. Same earnest dark gray eyes, masculine bowed eyebrows . . . finer bone structure and nose, bit more pout to pinker lips, piquant chin. Palest gold hair more like silk than wool. Then his eyes drop downward, scanning the angel's lovely devon cream body. Soft shoulders, high virginal breasts topped by nipples like pie cherries, rounded belly gently curving into a luxuriant palest blonde bush. Satiny, plump thighs and calves.

Crowley can't stand another second of mere looking. Lurches forward, grasps the angel's ankles and gently pulls her prone. Pushes her legs apart and plunges his face onto her vulva, nostrils buried in her bush, supple tongue and lips licking and massaging her labia and clitoris. He then glides upward and supports himself lightly astride her hips, leaning forward so his erection lies rigid against her belly cushion. Thrusts his hands through her silky curls and plants a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against her mouth and nostrils.

_Tell me what you smell like._

_Oh! . . . Vanilla? _(Sigh. It _would_ be vanilla . . .)

_And brown sugar. _

_Yes! _(That's better!)

_Crowley moves downward and kisses one of her nipples._

_Topped with whipped cream and cherries. One . . ._ (kisses her second nipple) Two . . . (goes down and licks her plump clitoris) . . . _Three. _

_So I'm one great rum baba, am I?_

_I wouldn't know about that. Never been much into pastries. But whatever you are, you're delicious._

_Aziraphale laughs as Crowley makes wolfish growling and smacking noises, the demon's fingers buried deeply in the soft flesh of her hips, his auburn hair spilling across her thigh. But soon she begins to gently pant._

_Crowley, I need to feel you inside me again. Please._

The demon doesn't need an engraved invitation. Once he's as tight inside her as he can go, he falls atop her breasts and plunges his hands into her silky curls, his face buried atop her shoulder. Soft arms embrace him, cool creamy thighs and calves envelop his flanks and back.

The angel cries out as her muscular pulses rocket them both into Divine Ecstasy. Then delicious silent bliss for hours and hours.

. . .

Morning.

_Madame Tracy's Saturday breakfast? I could go for some pain au chocolat and cocoa._

_I could go for a lovely delicious creampuff right here, no need to leave the room._

_Sausages? She does good ones, and I know you like them._

_I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the tempting, Angel. My actual job? Life's mission? Perhaps you've heard?_

_Perhaps I've made too many trips to Edinburgh. Nice crisp rashers of local bacon, scrambled eggs . . . cappuccino . . . _

_Oh all right. Let's get dressed._

Some minutes later, both now male again and casually dressed, ready to hop across the street for breakfast. Aziraphale looks bothered about something and pauses, looking down at himself.

_Crowley, do you think this is the real me? Or that, deep down inside, I'm actually a woman?_

_I think you just have a flip side that you haven't discovered until now._

_Do you like the flip side better?_

Crowley is thoughtful.

_Your womanly form seems to trigger lust such as I've never experienced. Makes me feel as if I'm about to ignite. But I think that's just because it's you, Aziraphale. I love you. Human women, female angels - never had that kind of reaction to them. Ever._

He puts his arms around Aziraphale and hugs him, clasping the angel's head atop his shoulder, one hand running fingers through and stroking his lambswool hair.

_All that said, what I do desire, most of all, is the upholstered granite body that I've been longing to get closer to for 6,000 years._

Aziraphale flicks his fingers, and their clothing vanishes. He nuzzles Crowley's neck, strokes his back. Crowley murmurs,

_Move that chest rug of yours against me._

The angel obliges, and soon their mutual nipples are hard as pebbles. The demon's penis does its slow tight spiral around the angel's erection.

The two sink onto the carpet, Crowley atop a blissful Aziraphale, legs entwined as they slip into a long, comfortable Divine Ecstasy.

. . .

Tea time.

_I suppose you're ravenous now, Angel._

_Well, I'm never actually hungry. I simply enjoy food. Although, I must say, some salmon and cucumber sandwiches would definitely hit the spot. _With Lapsang Souchong.

_And frosted vanilla cream cakes._

Aziraphale gives Crowley a look. Crowley mimics ravenously cramming a whole cake into his mouth.

_Really, my dear. _(But he smiles.)

They stroll hand in hand across the street to Madame Tracy's Tea Shop.


	12. Braids

_Julia's Salon de Beaut__é _in Tadfield. Crowley enters. The three staff – Julia, Peter, and Mindy – have divided up the tasks for whenever Crowley happens to drop in. He never makes an appointment. Mindy does manicures, Julia facials, and Peter loves to braid hair. They draw straws each morning to determine who greets Crowley to sort out the session's tasks and take over other clients as necessary so Crowley doesn't have to wait. Today Peter won the draw. Mutters _"Woof!"_ to Julia, walks over to greet Crowley, gestures to invite him to his chair. He speaks with an Estuary accent:

_Not really ready for a shampoo yet, Mr. Crowley. Don't want your hair to get too dry. Is a massage and re-styling all right with you? . . . Your manicure still looks good. Unless you prefer a different color?_

_Just the hair is fine. A braid, I think. _

It's a bit early, and Peter's incoming appointment has not yet appeared, but will just have to wait if she or he does. Somehow the clients never seem to mind waiting if Crowley is present. Peter gestures to invite Crowley to his chair. Once Crowley is seated, arranges the neck paper strip and shoulder cape, starts brushing the demon's long auburn hair. Crowley has removed his glasses, but keeps his eyes closed to narrow slits.

_Shall we try a Scythian braid today? _

_I leave it to your judgment._

Peter brushes and combs for a long pleasant while. Puts down the tools and pushes his fingers into Crowley's hair to massage his scalp for a delicious interval. Eventually starts to separate the braid strands. Spends a long time carefully twisting and braiding until Crowley sports a neat pair of rope braids down his back.

Once Crowley is gone, when there's a brief break in the clientele stream, Julia approaches Peter and murmurs softly:

_What would we do without Mr. Crowley, eh, love? You've noticed how our clientele has increased since he started coming in? I'm thinking we might have to hire another chair._

Peter waves his hand as if he's just touched a hot stove.

_I'm thinking a small private room for personal relaxation massage therapy. He never gives the slightest hint that he's into that sort of thing, but I'd positively fling myself to my knees if he was. Slay me, Daddy. _(Groans comically)

_You're not alone, you know. Mindy had to visit the staff room last week after she finished with him._

_I wondered about that. _

Julia laughs.

_Perhaps a small fridge for ice and cold towels? _

_D'you mind if I leave a bit early today? Think I need a little workout with Oli._

_No worries. We'll cover for you._

* * *

Peter and Oli are getting dressed after their shower. Peter is about 1.75 meters and slim, light cappuccino skin, has some Senegal ancestry mixed in with his British stock. Oli is from Glasgow, sturdy and muscular, with dark hair and beard. He's donned his workman's kilt and is lacing up his boots.

_Doesn't anyone ever remark about your going commando on the job?_

_Nae danger. I'm the foreman. Anyone hangs around the ladder when I'm goin' up, they can go boil their head._

_Thanks for taking off early._

'_Twas pure dead brilliant. You were on fire. That tall ginger came in today, I take it? _

_Yep. I don't know what it is about him, but he has everyone nearly chewing the carpet before he leaves._

_You ever think of doing him?_

_Sure. If you weren't "my ane true love" I'd probably be panting like a puppy. No danger, though. He's attached like a magnet to that Mr. Fell. _

_Who's got the better ass?_

_He does. Tight as a military bun. But your shoulders are to die for. _

Peter hugs Oli.

_Tell me you love me._

_I do, y'know._

_Say it._

_I love you._

Oli holds Peter's ears and looks him straight in the eyes.

_I love you, too. Never doubt that._

Ollie grabs his jacket.

_Let's go out for porter and steak._

_Half the coo, I'm thinkin'._


	13. Possession

[From Chapter 7 of _The Big One:_

_Uriel and I visited the church. St. Cecil's. She said it was cold as a tomb inside. But it wasn't to me, Crowley. I felt as if I was in a sauna or something. She said the tile floor was cold as stone. But it felt hot when I touched it. Crowley, it was consecrated ground. Why does it feel hot to me? Am I becoming unholy?_

Aziraphale is struggling not to cry.

_That's unlikely, Aziraphale. There must be another explanation._

_I'm not a fallen angel?_

_I can't see how that could possibly be._

What nonetheless goes through Crowley's mind is how little it apparently takes to fall from grace. Asking questions. Hanging around with the wrong people. Next thing you know, you're doing a million-light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulfur.

Crowley embraces him in a tight hug. The angel's shoulders are shaking.

_Didn't feel like walking barefoot across a hot beach, did it?_

_N-n- not yet._

_Sauntering vaguely downward, are you?_

_No! _

_Hanging out with the wrong person, perhaps?_

_Never! . . . And if I am, I don't care! _

_Angel, do you still have your sword?_

They break apart. Aziraphale holds out his arm, and his sword appears, flaming as intense a blue as ever. Maybe even brighter. The flame centers are white.

_Looks as if you're still in the Almighty's good graces. We demons can't touch those things. _

Aziraphale sends his sword back into storage. Crowley caresses the angel's cheek and plants gentle kisses upon his face. Runs his fingers through the angel's lambswool hair.

_You don't suppose it's an after-effect of that little body swap we did?_

Aziraphale nearly collapses with relief.

_Oh! I do hope that's the explanation!_

_Well. If someday you find yourself plunging into a pool of boiling sulfur, call me. I'll join you. We could enjoy the spa together. Being next to you would make it worth the trip._

_Kiss me again, Crowley._]

* * *

Aziraphale is still unsure if it's just the body swap that's caused his reaction to consecrated ground. What if it's his love for Crowley? A surge of defiance rises within him.

_Crowley. Possess me. I need to feel you deep inside me._

The angel morphs into his womanly form, spread-eagled on the plush Persian carpet.

Crowley doesn't hesitate. While his erection solidifies, he strokes the nipples on her beautiful high tight breasts with his warm hands. She moans as the tip of his heated erection slides over her wet clitoris and between her chilly labia, raises her lovely legs. Her soft body is so wonderfully cold against his. The angel begins to pant as she moves her hips, and he thrusts as forcefully as he can in counterpoint. She is so tight. Aziraphale arches her back and cries out as Divine Ecstasy overcomes her. Crowley buries his ecstatic face against her neck as her muscular pulses cause him to come again, and again, and again . . . time slows as their Divine Ecstasy continues for hours.

It's early dawn before they release and pull apart. But Aziraphale hasn't had enough.

_Now my turn._

Male once again, he gives Crowley a gentle push to roll him over onto his stomach, then lies atop the demon's back. Crowley morphs into his snake demoness form. Aziraphale locks hands tightly with the demon's fingers, and holds her arms outstretched so she cannot close her talons. Her russet hair flows over the carpet like a spill of blood. She arches her backside and stretches her thighs open, and the angel enters her as deeply as he can go. Supple as an anaconda, she locks her ankles together behind him and writhes and wriggles and rocks her hips beneath him. And once again they're carried along in a tidal wave of Divine Ecstasy.

Late afternoon.

_Well that was fun! Let's get dressed and drive to the club. We're in plenty of time for Sunday dinner._ _And then we can do Wings all night at your flat._

Aziraphale decides to wear his crisp linen summer suit with a blue and gold tartan tie. Crowley's constructed summer suit is the color of steel slag, over a shirt the color of ashes. Italian distressed metallic leather shoes, sans socks. Instead of a tie, a short necklace under the wings of his collar. Ancient stone and glass beads, with a Hongshan culture jade cicada pendant, an excellent replica of which is in a Beijing museum. [Crowley promised his connections that he'd return the original if the necessity ever occurred, and so far it hadn't.]

And off they go to London, at a relaxed 75mph.


	14. Midnight Confession

Midnight in Tadfield. It's a dark, moonless night, and very quiet in the village. The faintest of lights can be discerned in Aziraphale's bookshop, however. Uriel walks up the street and through the locked door as a ghost might. Angels don't sleep, and it hasn't occurred to her that it might be an inopportune time of day to have a chat with Aziraphale. What she sees in the dim light are Aziraphale and Crowley, stripped to the waist, dancing. They're wearing ear buds, so no music can be heard. Although she's standing in the comparatively shadowy area near the door, they sense her presence and stop.

_Uriel. Try knocking next time, for Satan's sake. _

Crowley snaps his fingers, and their earbuds vanish. Crowley can see perfectly well in the dark, but Aziraphale magics the light level up to a pleasant warm glow, and gestures to Uriel to be seated in one of the little brocade upholstered Georgian chairs. She sits and stares at them, as if she doesn't quite know how to begin.

_I . . . I didn't know angels could dance. And where was the music?_

Crowley magics a pair of earbuds into her ears. She jumps as the pounding beat from a section of a trance mix assaults her hearing. Swiftly pulls and shakes the earbuds out and tosses them onto the floor.

_What kind of music is that?_

_You know, angel, if you're just going to stare at us and be a music critic, you can leave. This isn't a public performance. Or perhaps you were hoping for more of a show?_

Another snap of Crowley's fingers, and his and Aziraphale's clothing vanishes.

Swift as a serpent, Crowley sidles up behind Aziraphale and wraps his arms around his chest. Extends a long tongue and licks Aziraphale's shoulder and neck. Slowly rubs his hands through the angel's chest hair. The angel's pleasure is unmistakable.

_Crowley, for Heaven's sake! _

Aziraphale wrests himself from Crowley's grasp. Grabs another chair and hurries over to where Uriel is sitting in obvious distress, seats himself at an angle to her. A change from two years ago is that now he doesn't give being naked a second thought. Uriel obviously does, though, and can't tear her eyes from his shoulders and chest. And lap. Then she starts to cry.

With a groan of utter disgust, Crowley goes off into the back room.

Aziraphale snaps to and magics on his tatty old dressing gown. Places his hands on either side of Uriel's face, pulling her closer to him. Their eyes meet. What she sees are concerned and earnest gray eyes in a very kind face.

_Uriel. Please. Tell me what brings you here._

She tries to speak, but can't stop crying. Her eyes fall once again to Aziraphale's wooly chest, then she jerks her head away and closes her eyes as if in pain.

Aziraphale rises and wraps his arms around her, hugging her to him as he pulls her gently from her chair onto the floor. Eventually her shoulders stop shaking and she lies quietly in his arms.

Crowley comes out of the back room with a green pint ice cream container and a spoon. Sits next to Aziraphale, extends a spoonful toward Uriel of what looks like an icy dessert.

_I think this is needed. I know you eat. Take it._

_It's nice, Uriel. Lime cannabis sorbet. It has a relaxing effect._

Uriel sits up, tries a spoonful, finds it cool and pleasant. Crowley hands her the container.

_Keep eating. _

She really does like the taste, and takes increasingly larger spoonfuls. Crowley lies back on the floor, one knee raised, arms behind his head, russet hair spilling across the floor. Uriel dimly notices that the room smells of woodsmoke . . . and something else. Something deeply floral/animal and pungently pleasant. Minutes pass. Finally she's calm enough to talk.

_Now that I have found you, I have to return to Heaven. But I don't want to go. I want what you two have. I want . . . I want . . . to be in love with someone, like you two are with each other. _

She feels a bit . . . dizzy. Uninhibited enough to ask a question that's been on her mind.

_Are you two actually having sex together? _

She involuntarily glances at Crowley, who is gazing with eyes half closed off toward the back room's entrance and doesn't notice her.

_I didn't realize we could do that. It is messy?_

_Not at all. Our celestial bodies lack some human orifices, so we can't do some of the interesting things that they do, or use some of their peculiar devices. The excitement lasts a lot longer, though._

_It's nice, is it?_

_We call it "Divine Ecstasy," if that gives you any idea._

_I wonder why no one in heaven ever speaks about it?_

_I know I never really ever thought about it. Always assumed it was impossible for me. Decorative giblets only, don't you know. And I believe you have to be in love with your partner. _

_Oh. There's nobody . . . nobody . . ._

Aziraphale gives her a keen look.

_Nobody? Ten million angels and you've never fancied even one of them? _

He's about to say, _"Don't tell me it's a demon . . ." _but sees her expression take on a wistful aspect.

_You do, don't you. _

She nods. Continues to spoon in the sorbet.

_I don't suppose you can tell me who?_

She shakes her head.

_I don't think he gives me a moment's thought. We're all very work focused. As perhaps you remember._

Crowley is making snoring noises, although obviously not asleep. He snarls,

_Let's just get on with it, shall we? Go back to Heaven, find whoever it is, and just tell them you think they're hot. Get it on. It took Aziraphale and me 6000 years and Armageddon before we could finally admit we were attracted to each other. Piece of advice: don't make that mistake._

_Make your report to Gabriel and Michael. Then just . . . slip back down here? With your friend? _

_I can't disobey. _

_What orders would you be disobeying?_

A snaky smile appears on Crowley's face as Aziraphale works the Temptation. The Arrangement definitely knocked some edges off the angel.

Uriel downs another spoonful, appears lost in thought.

_No one has actually said I can't return to Earth._

_And once you're back, what reason would they have to come get you? Aren't you allowed a good deal of latitude and independent work? You're pretty far up corporate ladder._

_I'm just the office gofer, you know. Gabriel made me apply for Sandalphon's position, but then wouldn't give it to me. I think now that may have been lucky for me. I suspect I very well could_ _just go off, and no one would notice for a long time. I've been down here over a year now, and they haven't even bothered to ask for a compliance report. It has made me wonder if Gabriel actually thinks he's punishing me for something. You know how distasteful he finds Earth. _

_Yes. Thinks humans are stupid. Won't corrupt his celestial body with gross matter. One can only imagine how revolted he would be by sex._

This latter possibility brings a sly speculative smile to Uriel's face. Crowley's, too.

_May I suggest you return to London, take the Main Office escalator. Tell them you've returned because you need a new phone and want to make your report. Hook up with your friend. Then come back down to Earth._

_My friend is already on Earth._

_Even better! Make your report. Request a new phone, to demonstrate your good intentions and reassure them that you're keen. Come back down and find your friend. Don't bother to report again until they call you. If they call you._

_I must think this over. _

Uriel gets to her feet.

_May I take this with me?_

_Be sure to return the spoon._

She grimaces at Crowley, tosses him the spoon, and magics one of her own out of the air.

_Thank you . . . Both of you. Can I come by tomorrow?_

_Anytime the shop is open, my dear._

Uriel exits, walking through the door as if it's made of fog.

_I've never been able to do that, have you?_

_No. _

_Is she a higher power?_

_No, just an archangel. Technically, I outrank her. I think it might simply be a talent. Like being able to sing four octaves._

_Aziraphale, you don't suppose the "friend" she was referring to is you? Pretty obvious she was suffering from desire._

_Doubtful. She and Sandalphon roughed me up. Helped kidnap me – you, I mean. Stood by while Gabriel tried to kill you – me – with Hellfire, didn't you say? Not exactly the way to demonstrate affection. Must be someone else._

Crowley gets to his feet, extends a hand to Aziraphale.

_C'mon, Angel. Let's have a scotch and then some Divine Ecstasy._

_Now that is a Great Plan._

Crowley magics Aziraphale's dressing gown back into the closet. Stretches an arm around the angel's shoulders, and they saunter into the back room.

Aziraphale pours them each a stiff amount of scotch, hands Crowley his glass. Crowley downs the liquor in one long swallow, magics the glass back onto the tray, comes up behind Aziraphale and resumes where he left off, nuzzling the angel's neck and caressing his chest. One hand strokes Aziraphale's flank, grasps and massages the angel's rapidly hardening cock.

_Don't waste your scotch, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale doesn't drink his, but instead magics it back into the decanter and the glass back onto the tray. He can feel Crowley's serpentine penis thrusting itself forward to nudge his testicles. Whiskey breath, bitter almonds, wood smoke. Sensing that Aziraphale is slipping into Divine Ecstasy, Crowley writhes around to the angel's front, places his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and pushes him down to the Persian carpet. Straddles him as their penises interlock, leans forward. Aziraphale's firm icy hands caress the demon's chest. Crowley slips his fingers through Aziraphale's wooly hair, his own russet hair spilling over his shoulders and tickling the angel's neck. Wrapping his arms around the demon's back, Aziraphale pulls him close. Crowley is so wonderfully warm.

Sighing with pleasure as he feels the angel's cool, soothing flesh and wooly chest fuzz against his skin, Crowley kisses the angel's open mouth with his ecstatic lips and tongue. Together they climax into Divine Ecstasy.


	15. Ram of God

Uriel's companion is a man about 1.75m tall and muscular. Copper skin, thick black curly hair and beard, and very hairy all over generally. High bridged nose in a handsome face with amused warm brown eyes.

Seeing Adam and Crowley, he transforms. An angel with the head and neck of a black karakul ram. Curled horns. Chest hair like a curly bearskin rug. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals. Wings tipped with gold. Opens his arms and bows.

_Prince. Antichrist. I am the Principality Ammun. Hello, Aziraphale._

-Chapter 12, The Big One

* * *

The lounge in Crowley's Mayfair flat. He and Aziraphale are seated on the couch, sipping their way through a bottle of Talisker. They've just finished watching one of Aziraphale's favorite movies, _Singin' in the Rain. _

_I've always loved Gene Kelly's suits in that movie._

_Even the plus fours?_

_Especially the plus fours._

_I rather fancy Cyd Charisse's green dress, myself. I think we should practice that dance routine, in fact._

_I thought you'd never ask, Crowley._

_You know, we didn't meet during the 1930s, but after I saw Fred Astaire in the movie Top Hat, I swanked around London in a tuxedo made by his same Savile Row tailor. He was so trim. Perfect waist. Resisted that damned English drape cut._

_You don't still have it, do you?_

_Yep. Wanna see it?_

_Dying to, Crowley._

Crowley gets up, snaps his fingers, and he's in 30's full fig, complete with patent pumps, exquisite Deco pearl and platinum studs and links in an immaculate boiled shirt, winged collar and white bow tie, bespoke tailcoat with devilish peaked lapels, galon striped trousers, low cut white evening backless waistcoat of the perfect length, platinum pocket watch, scarlet boutonniere.

_Had my hair short and slicked back, of course. Left the silk top hat, walking stick, topcoat and gloves in storage. And I can't tap dance, of course._

_Oh. Crowley. What I missed! Next time we tango, you lead._

_Nah. Let's just get your white tie tailored better. I shudder to think what it looks like._

_I don't own a white tie ensemble, Crowley. Bookshop owners lead a different life._

_I think we need to fix that. I trust you'll look very handsome. _

_But Crowley, no one wears white tie much anymore, do they? I don't expect we'll be called to present ourselves to the Queen._

_Then it will just be the two of us having fun with vintage clothing. By the way, speaking of vintage clothing, that reminds me. When Ammun appeared the other day in heavenly dress, why were you reluctant to show yours? Let it get a bit scruffy, have you?_

_No. It's just . . . well, I haven't actually been called to The Presence since I was posted to Eden. Probably is a bit dusty._

_C'mon, just between you and me, then. I'll show you my Hellish court costume if you'll show me your Heavenly dress._

Aziraphale takes a large swig of scotch, sets down his glass. Stands, flicks a hand down his front.

And becomes a startling apparition. Tawny urial ram's head and neck. Massive ivory horns spiraling outward to complete a full circle. Dark gray eyes with horizontal pupils. Long white silky beard and chest ruff combination that stretches to his waist. Wings tipped with gold. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals.

Crowley transforms into an enormous python, black iridescent scales banded with slim fiery stripes that seem to be lit from within. Coppery gold eyes. Unlike pythons, however, his brows are the horns of desert vipers, and shining red gold like a crown. Wings are raven black, except they're not feathered. They're pterosaur wings, with giant amber claws.

_Principalities are rams of God?_

_Yes. We all wear horns._

_That's a pretty impressive rack, Aziraphale. Way bigger than Ammun's._

_It does seem to have grown a bit since I last wore it. Why did Ammun call you "Prince," by the way. Only Seraphim are called by that title._

_That's what I was. I remember that. Can't remember my heavenly name, though. I never did have arms and legs, was just a face, six wings, and a tail. Looked pretty much like a piece of burned hawser when Lucifer and Beelzebub fished me out of the lake of fire. Could only slide around on my belly. Crawly._

The giant winged snake slithers to the angel's feet, raises itself and slowly coils about the angel's body, looping over his shoulders and staring him in the face. Smiles a snaky smile, revealing needle sharp backward-pointing teeth.

_Pythons can eat sheep, you know._

_Not with these horns, you won't. _

The snake flicks out a forked tongue over the ram's nostrils.

_Crowley, that tickles. You're going to make me sneeze._

_Why don't you nuzzle me with that fuzzy muzzle._

The python's tail slips under the angel's skirt.

_Same human plumbing. Way more impressive balls, though. And they're really, really hairy? Hard to feel through these scales._

Aziraphale can't stand it another second and laughs as he morphs back into his human form. Finds himself collapsed to the floor beneath one very heavy snake.

_Whoops._ (Crowley morphs back to human). _You all right?_

The angel takes a deep breath.

_Yes. No cracked ribs. You are a monster. I mean, very large. Not at all monstrous. Extremely beautiful, in fact . . . Mmmf!_

While he gabbles, Crowley has been doing a slow wriggle atop the angel's belly, running hands along the angel's ribs and through his chest hair, long tongue licking his shoulder, neck, and then open mouth.

_Mmmmmmm . . . mutton . . ._

Crowley twines his legs around Aziraphale's as he moves his hips to accommodate the angel's growing erection. Once his own penis has spiraled around the angel's, he continues with a slow grind . . . and they're off into Divine Ecstasy.


	16. Tartans and Tequila

Early afternoon in the bookshop. Crowley enters, lugging some large boxes and shopping bags. Drops them by the sales table. Claps his hands once, loudly.

_Everybody out, we're closing for the afternoon. _

There are only a few customers, most having had to return to work after their luncheon break. He herds them toward the door like a skilled border collie sending sheep to the pen. Locks the door, turns the sign to "Closed."

Aziraphale has been struck speechless through this entire proceeding. Not just by the demon's effrontery in shooing away his clientele. Crowley's wearing a kilt.

And not just any old kilt. The tartan is a vibrant multicolor, the Pride of LGBT weave. He's gone for style rather than punk or docs and a hoodie. Trim dark charcoal argyle jacket of a modernized suit cut with a bit more of a cutaway, sans the gauntlet cuffs, epaulets, and scalloped pocket flaps. Perfectly tailored in back to rest smoothly over trim hips with nary a fold. Eschewing a waistcoat, showing instead his favorite belt with the black jade snakehead buckle. He carries the kilt colors aloft with another sinfully soft Italian pullover in ultra violet. Black leather hunting sporran with a tooled celtic serpent medallion and similar pattern in the silvery frame. Dark charcoal Lewis hose with the celtic cabled cuffs. Flashes match the tartan. Loathing ghillies, he's sporting Prada ankle boots. His nails are enameled in rainbow colors to match the tartan.

_Crowley! You look . . . Well. _(He swallows.)_ Beautiful._

_So, you like it?_

Aziraphale can't take his eyes off the demon. Breathes softly,

_Yes._

Crowley rubs his hands briskly together, starts unpacking boxes and bags onto the desk.

_Glad you feel that way, 'cause I had some things made for you, too._

He opens a large tailor's box to reveal a kilt, done not in the colorful LGBT weave, but a soft cream and cocoa sort of Glen plaid. Wide dark brown belt with a silver buckle engraved with celtic wings in a yin/yang position.

_I found a picture of Gene Kelly where he's wearing a suit in this plaid. So I had some woven to match._

Opens a shoe box, to reveal a pair of two-tone brogue derby shoes in chocolate calf and beige canvas.

_Had the shoemaker use your last, so they should fit well. _

He pulls out a pair of cream Lewis hose, garters, and flashes done from the more detailed portion of the plaid weave. Opens another box containing a cream Aran sweater.

_We can have a jacket and waistcoat made on our next visit to Edinburgh. In the meantime, seeing as how it's September, I thought you'd find this comfortable. You can wear a dress shirt under it, of course, or this:_

An Irish grandad shirt is pulled from another bag.

_And your sporran._

The soft chocolate brown hunting pouch is a thing of beauty. A central tooled medallion of flared angelic wings. Sleek silvery cantle set with a Cairngorm agate cabochon. The chain and cantle feel oddly heavy.

_Platinum. Silver's such a nuisance to keep clean. Leaves marks if you don't remember to keep at it. And this _(reaches a small jeweler's box out of another bag)_ goes with the sporran._

Opens the box, revealing an antique silver Victorian kilt pin set with agate and a deep Madeira citrine.

_It was probably something made for tourists. But it's nicely crafted, a good weight, and the stones are genuine. At first I thought stag horn, like mine, but decided this matched the sporran better._

Azaraphale looks at Crowley's kilt pin, which is a horn tip in an antique silver cap. Crowley grins.

_Horn just seemed more appropriate for a demon, not an angel. These old Victorian pins, though – you could use them as a weapon. _

He reaches down and removes his pin, showing Aziraphale the heavy hand-forged silver shank, with a tip as sharp as a serpent's tooth.

_Better re-fasten this before I accidentally draw blood._

While Crowley has been fastening the pin back in place, Aziraphale has stepped over in front of him. As the demon straightens up, the angel hugs him as a child might a loving parent.

_Crowley. I don't know what to say. You devoted so much thought to all of this._

Crowley hugs Aziraphale tightly, then claps him on the shoulders, ruffles his wooly hair.

_A thank-you will do. For now. Let's get you dressed, shall we? Then pick something up at Madame Tracy's. Go for an afternoon picnic._

_Thank you, Crowley. Is that a flask I feel under that jacket?_

_Does it show?_

_Not at all. Felt it just now. An emergency supply?_

_Yep. Always be prepared. Boy Scouts, or something like that?_

Crowley slips his hands beneath the angel's Fair Isle sweater vest and pulls it off over his head. Aziraphale loosens and removes his tie, kicks off his shoes. Unbuckles his belt, steps out of his trousers. The demon steps behind Aziraphale, slips his hands into the waistband of the angel's boxers and slides them down to his ankles

_Crowley . . ._

'_S traditional. You'll like it. Step out of those things. . . . Sit down. Socks go on first._

Crowley kneels, slips off the angel's socks. Hands him the new pair, which Aziraphale pulls on, making sure the ribs are neatly vertical. Because he always does. Crowley applies the garters, adjusts the cuffs and the flashes.

_Shoes next._

Crowley helps the angel slide his feet into the shoes, ties the laces. Starts to rise from his knees, then assumes a thoughtful look. Raises the angel's shirt tails off his lap. Grasps Aziraphale's knees and spreads his legs apart from their habitual tight closure. Runs his hands up the inside of the angels thighs, tickles his blond pubic fluff with one hand while running the other under his shirt and caressing his flank. Places his mouth over the tip of the angel's growing erection. The angel's skin is always cold, and his scent is of desert herbs with a stony mineral overtone.

_Mmmmmmmm . . . you always taste like a tequila lolly to me. _

Their picnic plans are delayed by a quickie hour of Divine Ecstasy.


	17. Not Nice

[The scene many of us wanted to see. Tsk.]

Tadfield Manor. Aziraphale and Crowley are walking down a hallway. Wearing their kilts.

_Isn't this where you roughed me up when we were searching for the antichrist baby records, Crowley? When I said you were nice?_

Crowley grabs the angel by his sweater and shoves him up against a wall.

_Just shut it. I'm a demon. I'm not nice. I'm never nice. Nice is a four letter word . . ._

Once again, they're nose to nose. Then Crowley grins, clutches Aziraphale's wooly hair and kisses him with a long, thorough kiss.

The angel's hands gravitate to Crowley's tight backside, naked beneath the kilt pleats. But before the angel can lift the fabric to get a proper feel, Crowley growls:

_Fucking sporrans._

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the offending pouches are now on the floor. He slides down Aziraphale's front, runs a hand down the angel's thigh and then back up under the kilt. His head and shoulders follow the hand as he genuflects before Aziraphale.

_Mmmmmmmm . . . a tequila lolly in my own little tent._

Aziraphale tilts his head back, face slipped into ecstatic St. Teresa mode. His hands are flat against the wall, bracing him as he leans against it.

As if reality is on replay, Mary Hodges comes up the corridor, stops short. This time she does a swift about face, and, reaching the double doors to the hallway, turns back to close them, pulls out a hex key, and locks them. Goes to her office, selects a sign from a cabinet, and, absent-mindedly fanning herself with it, goes back to the locked doorway and places the sign upon a stand:

CONFERENCE ROOM B

CLOSED


	18. Nightmare

_You know what Beelzebub and Crowley got up to back in the day._

It's if a heat mirage ripples through the room. Crowley's eyes are glowing orange, and a faint shadow of pterosaur wings and claws starts to appear.

Ammun recollects a bit more about the missions Beelzebub made Crowley perform. Being a god hanging around temples in the big towns, he got more of an up close view than Aziraphale, who generally could be found wandering around in the wastelands trying to lessen the misery of impoverished herders driving their goats and sheep and camels and donkeys.

_-The Big One, Chapter 16_

* * *

Uriel and Ammun have left the bookshop. Crowley has gone into the back room. Aziraphale follows him.

Crowley is nude, standing like a wilted plant, head down, long hair dull as dirty rust. One arm stretches limply downward, hand over his genitals. His other arm is crossed across his chest, hand clutching the first just above the elbow.

Aziraphale magics away his clothing, comes up behind Crowley and wraps his arms around him. Takes Crowley's hands in his, holds them tightly against the demon's chest, his icy body soothing against the demon's feverish back.

Crowley is breathing in rasping gasps. He's in a nightmare where someone is about to hurt him very badly, but he cannot scream. He tries and tries and tries, but can only make gasping little whispers. Tries to cry out for help, but his vocal cords are paralyzed. Finally:

_UnhhhhhhAHHHHHHHH!_

He screams as if he's just been stabbed through the liver. Catharsis. His breathing stops. He sinks slowly to the carpet, sprawls face down with his arms outstretched, hips in Aziraphale's lap, long legs stretched out to either side of the angel.

Azirphale's cool hands caress and massage Crowley's lower back, flanks, upper thighs, backside. The demon's hands become talon-like, long ruby nails digging into the plush Persian carpet. She arches his back and lifts her hips. Aziraphale repositions himself so he's sitting on his heels, knees supporting Crowley.

_Are you ready, Crowley?_

_Do it, Angel._

Aziraphale slides his erection through the demon's wet labia.

OooooohhhhUnhhhhhhh….

This time Crowley's cry is a moan of pleasure, her rhythmic contractions feeling the angel's cock satisfyingly deep inside her.

Their Divine Ecstasy lasts until very early dawn.

* * *

_Feeling better, Crowley?_

Crowley morphs back to male, coils around and lays his head upon the angel's shoulder, one arm hugging Aziraphale's chest.

_Aziraphale. I've never . . . I've never had an episode like that one, where I couldn't scream. Where I was voiceless. He was going to hurt met, and I couldn't even scream. Usually I screamed my damned head off. Was the only thing to do, of course. Was what he wanted to hear._

_Crowley, do you think it's wise to indulge these memories?_

_I can't stop them, Aziraphale. Even after 2,000 fucking years. Part of my torment for being damned, do you suppose?_

_I would hope the Almighty is not so cruel as that._

The memory of being pitched from heaven into a million-lightyear freestyle dive toward a lake of burning sulfur comes to Crowley's mind, but he keeps silent about it.

_Well, Beelzebub is certainly up to the mark. But she can't get me now. I have a guardian angel._

Crowley caresses Aziraphale's shoulders and chest, gently tugs the angel's head toward him and kisses him.

_Let's try another position, Angel. You tell me how you want me to love you._

_Kiss me all over, Crowley. As you did on our first night of Divine Ecstasy. That was so wonderful._

And it is still wonderful.


	19. Full Goose

London. Crowley's Mayfair apartment. Aziraphale and Crowley enter, go straight to the bedroom, shed their overcoats and suits and don dressing gowns. Aziraphale's is a pale lavender flannel plaid with golden silk velvet lining, fastened with a twisted purple and gold cord. It looks comfortable enough to spend the rest of one's life in. Crowley wanders off to the liquor cabinet and calls back,

_How about a bottle of port?_

_Just the ticket._

They both know what they're going to do when they finish their wine, so ensconce themselves on the bed, backs against giant pillows.

_I say, Crowley, this American ruby is quite nice. Especially with this dark chocolate. _

_Venezuelan chocolate. I love it. Which reminds me. I have to go to Panama next week. Business. Don't leave Tadfield while I'm away. Not for any reason. . . . No, there's nothing to worry about. Just a routine trip. Here, drink up._

They sit companionably and work their way through their port. After Aziraphale finishes the last sip, Crowley magics the glasses and bottle off to the kitchen.

_Angel. What about going formal dress and seeing what we can manage?_

_Crowley, do you think that's wise? We're at full power when we manifest in those forms. Wouldn't do to get carried away. We could injure one another._

_Yep. Those horns of yours could certainly mess me up. Guessing that getting battered and punctured would smart a bit._

_And you nearly broke a couple of my ribs that time I changed back too soon and you fell on me._

_We should have a change word. What should it be?_

_Hm. Something that comes easily to mind. Nothing tricky. A good word, or a bad word?_

_Bad, I think. But nothing common, like fuck or damn or shit or bugger._

"_Michael."_

_Now that's positively inspired. Definitely a word to quash any excitement. "Michael" it is._

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, gets up and removes his robe. Walks to the most open place in the room, atop the heavy Tabriz carpet. In less than an eye blink, he's now two meters tall, with a tawny urial ram's head and neck. Massive ivory horns spiraling outward to complete a full circle, tips pointed forward. Dark gray eyes with horizontal pupils. Long snowy beard and chest ruff combination that stretches to his waist. Wings tipped with gold. Egyptian wrapped linen shendyt and gold sandals. He kicks off the sandals and unwraps the shendyt, sending sandals and garment to the edge of the room.

_Aziraphale, you're hung like a damned horse. And they could use those hairy golden balls of yours to play tennis. You're going to be sadly disappointed by my giblets, I'm afraid._

An enormous black python with fiery stripes and a viper's eyebrow horns dipped in red gold glides off the bed and across the floor to the angel. Unconstrained by gravity, Crowley serpentines upward along Aziraphale's legs, across his lower back and up along his backbone between his wings. The angel can feel the belly scales ripple and massage his skin as the serpent moves. The demon drapes himself across the angel's now noticeably broader and more muscular shoulders. His large wedge-shaped head rests atop the angels' snowy cascade of neck and chest ruff. A thick black forked tongue slides out and flicks first at the angel's nipples and then his penis. Pterosaur wings flare out. Huge amber claws hook around the tips of Aziraphale's curled horns and pull his head back until his muzzle is nearly vertical.

_Pull your butt cheeks apart. _

Aziraphale complies, and what feels like a rather prickly golf ball positions itself tightly at the spot just below his tailbone. Somewhat uncomfortable, but oddly stimulating at the same time. It makes him wriggle.

_My hemipenes._

The snake demon's muscular body coils over the angel's thighs and against his erection. Aziraphale reaches his arms up to pull his horns a bit more forward to relieve some of the arch in his back, but it's a bit of a tussle. Crowley is slightly contracting all over, like a giant sinuous round vise. Meanwhile his black tongue is very active. He hisses softly, which noise, unlike the effect it would have on humans, solidifies the erection of a lifetime in Aziraphale. His hips make short thrusting movements. The angel's muzzle opens, he eyes half close and roll upward in their sockets as he comes into Divine Ecstasy. The serpent's hisses, his slit pupils open wide until his eyes are nearly black. They maintain this tableau for several hours, until finally Aziraphale gasps, "Michael."

* * *

_I thought maybe you'd bleat, or something like that._

_Really, my dear._

_What a charge, eh? I feel like Hercules. OK, a skinny Hercules. But you know what I mean._

_I do. Feel as it electricity should snap from my fingertips._

He extends a finger and pokes Crowley, but nothing alarming happens.

_Well, there's a relief, at least. Wouldn't do to go around zapping static charges into whatever I touch. Probably ruin my cell phone._

_Pull out your sword._

Aziraphale reaches out an arm, and his beautiful Japanese sword appears in his hand. The flames are a blinding bluish white, flaring like restless sea foam along the blade.

_Whoa._


	20. Not Nice At All

London. The bedroom in Crowley's Mayfair flat. The two angels are nude, holding hands as they lie side by side atop the bed. Aziraphale shifts to straddle Crowley's hips, then pins the demon's arms above his shoulders.

_Do whatever you want to me._

_I'm going to make you take a compliment._

_Satan's sins, Angel!_

_You know, Crowley, that deep down inside you really are quite a nice person. _

_No! I'm a demon. A bad, wicked demon. Can't be nice . . ._

Still keeping Crowley pinned, the angel leans down and whispers in the demon's ear.

_A very nice fallen angel. So sweet._

_Nuh-uh. 'M not nice. Bad! . . . Nnngk . . ._

Crowley mock struggles as Aziraphale kisses his neck.

_I think you need a blessing for being such a very nice demon._

Aziraphale releases Crowley's hands, places his arms alongside the demon's slender body and, propping himself on his elbows, plants icy kisses along Crowley's shoulders, chest, stomach . . . Cradling the demon's balls in one hand and stroking his flank with the other, the angel gives Crowley's now erect cock a big, wet sloppy kiss and works from there. Crowley plunges both hands through the angel's lambswool hair, then spasms into Divine Ecstasy.

A long time later:

_Crowley, do you realize that your toes turn up when you orgasm? That's so cute._

_I could kill you, you know, cupcake._

_I do know. And I you._

Crowley gazes into Aziraphale's earnest gray eyes.

_Made for each other. _

He kisses the angel with increasing passion . . .


	21. Jealous Demon

Tadfield. Just before closing time in the bookshop. Uriel and Ammun enter.

_My goodness, don't you both look handsome! All dressed up! Are you off to an occasion somewhere?_

_Dinner and dancing at a new club in Oxford. Would you two like to come along with us? We hear you do a mean tango._

Crowley glides up before Aziraphale can reply.

'_Fraid not. We're off to London._

_We are?_

_Yes._

_Well, next time perhaps. We'll let you know if the place is any fun._

They make their goodbyes, and Aziraphale closes up the shop.

_Ammun looks quite attractive when he makes an effort, doesn't he? _

_Always has._

What's going through Crowley's mind are those long BC millennia where Ammun swanked around as a major god while Crowley was forced to do time as a temple prostitute or concubine whenever he couldn't manage to slide off somewhere to escape notice altogether.

Aziraphale finally clues in to the demon's glum mood, and says nothing further. They drive silently to London, Crowley not even bothering to play any music along the way.

_Fancy dinner somewhere?_

_No. Crowley, let's just go to your flat. You've got something there worth drinking, I trust?_

_To Mayfair it is._

Upon arriving at the flat, they magic their overcoats into the closet. Crowley starts toward the liquor cabinet, but Aziraphale puts an arm around his waist and steers him toward the bedroom. Stops Crowley at the foot of the bed.

_No, don't magic them off, let me undress you._

Piece by piece Aziraphale removes Crowley's clothing – jacket, buckle . . . kilt and sporran . . . runs his hands up Crowley's ribs and slides the jumper and undershirt up over the demon's head . . .

_Sit down._

Aziraphale doesn't kneel to remove the demon's boots and socks, instead hoists each leg like a farrier shoeing a horse. Slipping a hand down Crowley's leg and pushing off the last sock, he pauses to notice what shapely feet the demon has. Massages his cool hand over the instep by the ankle joint and then down to press his index finger between the toes, massaging each one as if playing This Little Piggy Goes to Market.

_Unnhhh . . ._

Crowley begins to squirm. Aziraphale gently releases the demon's foot, turns to face him. Crowley clutches him tightly, head against the angel's stomach. Aziraphale runs one hand through the demon's russet hair, strokes his shoulders with the other.

_Who's been a bad, jealous demon?_

Crowley grimaces and buries his face against Aziraphale.

_Come, lie down._

Crowley slides back onto the bed, throws an arm across his face. Aziraphale magics off his own clothing, climbs aboard, and sits sideways next to Crowley. He strokes the demon's chest.

_Crowley, do you wish I weren't such a . . . well, bit of a middle-aged dumpling, really?_

This jerks Crowley out of his sulk.

_No! Angel, don't say things like that. _

_Well, you're so slim and beautiful. Solid muscle. Not a scrap of fat on you. When I see you and Uriel and Ammun together I feel so . . . inadequate. Like a giant marshmallow._

Crowley is now in a panic and sits up, clutching Aziraphale's arms.

_Angel! Don't talk like that about yourself! _

He traces his warm hands around the angel's shoulders and fuzzy pectorals.

_Haven't you noticed your muscles from all that kendo? And bicycling all over the place with Madame Tracy has toned you up beautifully. _

_Do you think I should try to lose some weight?_

_No! I love your upholstery. Soft on the outside. Solid as a brick inside. For Satan's sake, Aziraphale, what's gotten into you?_

Aziraphale smiles.

_Still jealous that I might consider Ammun handsome?_

The two gaze into one another's eyes. Then Crowley laughs.

_Aziraphale, you are such a bastard._

_Just so you know, Crowley, there isn't anyone in the entire universe that I consider more attractive than you. Nobody. And I've had a long time to look around. I love you, Crowley. Only you._

Crowley has melted into a puddle of goo by the end of this statement, and curls up with his head in the angel's lap.

_Forgive me, Angel. I'm sorry I was such a shit._

_I forgive you. But now you must make amends, of course._

The two position themselves for mutual fellatio, and are soon aloft in a golden cloud of Divine Ecstasy.


	22. Gavotte

The bookshop. Crowley and Aziraphale have returned from dropping DeeDee the Disposable Demon off at Madame Tracy's cottage.

_Let's get some gavotte practice in, shall we? Relax a bit after this evening's excitements._

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the two appear in the 18th century costumes they wore at the Bastille. Crowley reaches out and pulls a tuft of Aziraphale's hair.

_You should brush your hair the way you wore it back then. Makes you look very cute._

_Really, my dear. Couldn't you have said "handsome?"_

Crowley has magicked a hairbrush into his hand, proceeds to go over the angel's wooly mop and coax it into a semblance of a late 18th century hairstyle with siderolls and high off the forehead.

_There. Very handsome. Music?_

Aziraphale selects a Handel gavotte, and the two begin to dance. Whenever they come close, Crowley steals a kiss and Aziraphale trips a bit to recover his footing.

_Let's do the Bach piece with me in a dress. I need to get some practice hauling all that fabric around._

Crowley switches to the silk gown he intends to wear to the upcoming Halloween Ball at Tadfield Manor

_Very fetching, my dear. The chest hair adds a piquant touch._

Aziraphale cues the gavotte from Bach's Partita No. 3 in E Major, and they practice a choreography they found on YouTube. At the end of their third run through the dance, Crowley stops the music. Tugs Aziraphale's cravat loose, removes his coat and waistcoat, pulls off his linen shirt.

_There's just something about a bare-chested man in silk breeches, hose, and buckled shoes._

_Treat me to the same vision, if you'd be so kind._

Crowley switches back to his dressy French peasant from their Bastille visit, sans upper clothing, and embraces Aziraphale. A few hot minutes later:

_Let's go into the back room for a bit of fun. Then I'll make you some crepes._

* * *

Crowley tosses the two giant pillows onto the rug. Comes close to Aziraphale and undoes the buttons to his breeches. The angel does likewise to Crowley. They step out of their buckled shoes, mutually slip one another halfway out of their breeches. Aziraphale strokes and clutches the demon's backside.

_You have such a beautiful ass, Crowley._

_You can do it for dessert. Lie down._

Crowley unbuckles his shoes, kicks off his breeches and stockings, pulls off Aziraphale's shoes, breeches, and stockings. Sometimes it more fun to undress rather than simply magic clothing away. Straddles the angel's hips. Runs firm hands up Aziraphale's chest and down along his ribs, leans over to nuzzle the angel's neck and shoulder.

_You feel a bit sandpapery tonight, Crowley._

_Because you like it._

_Yes. I do._

Crowley rubs his chin over the angel's lips and across his other shoulder. The he sits up and lets his snaky penis spiral around Aziraphale's erection before again leaning over and tightly hugging the angel to his chest. Does a serpentine wriggle and pumps his hips. Aziraphale gasps and clutches Crowley's hair and shoulder, raises his knees and rolls a bit to the side as he arches his back and releases into Divine Ecstasy. Crowley's feet twist together and his toes turn up as he joins Aziraphale.

* * *

Several hours of Divine Ecstasy have passed. They're relaxed in one another's arms.

_What's that you said about my righteous ass, Angel?_

Aziraphale smiles and sighs in reply.

Crowley sits up and re-positions himself in a Marie-Louise O'Murphy pose in Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale doesn't need an engraved invitation, and delightedly caresses and tickles Crowley. The demon wiggles as he feels the angel's cock stiffening against his belly. Then he morphs into his snake demoness form and crouches with buttocks elevated.

_Do me, Aziraphale._

The angel scoots up and shifts his legs around until he's kneeling.

_Are you ready, Crowley?_

_Positively dripping. C'mon, angel!_

Aziraphale pushes himself in, and they both immediately go into Saint Teresa mode as Crowley's viselike contractions pulse along the angel's erection like a python in the terminal stages of constricting prey. Crowley's talons rip holes in the pillow.

* * *

_Crepes for brunch? We promised Madame Tracy to meet at her shop this morning. _

_Damn. I was thinking steak and chips at the Bull and Fiddle, myself. With a liter of porter._

_We could also do that as well. Second course, so to speak. Or would that be the sin of gluttony?_

_Let's hope so._


	23. Pillow Talk

Tadfield. Mid-morning. The Bookshop back room. Crowley and Aziraphale are in their comfort position, on the carpet, sitting in one another's arms against a giant pillow propped at the base of Aziraphale's armchair.

Crowley is still in his snake demoness form from their latest bout of Divine Ecstasy, his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, ruby talons idly stroking the fuzz on the angel's chest. Crowley's talons are not lacquered; instead, they have the appearance of being carved from actual ruby, maroon as venous blood. Sinister sigils are engraved into their surfaces and filled with gold. They're sharp. Not as sharp as a hawk's, but certainly in the range of a leopard's claws. Crowley is being careful to stroke Aziraphale using the backs of the talons.

_You have such beautiful claws, Crowley._

_You like them?_

_Yes. Although they are rather frightening. They look as if you could easily disembowel someone._

_Possibly._

Aziraphale feels Crowley tense. Speaking of disemboweling, Crowley remembers Beelzebul's claws . . . His breathing changes to shallow panting.

_Oh, Crowley! I've done it again, haven't I? Put my foot right in it. Please, Crowley. Don't breathe. Please. Forgive me._

Crowley morphs back into his male form, shudders as his breathing subsides, clutches Aziraphale tightly.

'_M all right. 'S not your fault, Angel. _

He sits up and looks as his hands, which are trickling blood from four puncture wounds at the base of each of his palms. He wipes the blood off on Aziraphale's chest hair, then magics it away. The punctures are already healing. He resumes his position lying against the angel, who hugs him tightly.

_Crowley, do you ever cry?_

_Nope. I don't think I can. Whenever I feel like crying, it turns into rage instead. It's as if a coil of incense is ignited inside me. A slow burn working outward. Probably just another result of that splash into the burning sulfur lake. It's not something I've ever worried about, at any rate._

_I used to cry a lot. The stuff humans do is appalling. And then I finally realized that they are what they are, their lives are short, their grief ends. Unlike us, who have to face eternity. Sadness ends, for them. They die._

_That's right. Speaking as a demon in a position to know, crying isn't going to wash away the agony. You're stuck, and that's it. Cry all you like, it provides no release. You're going to watch The Sound Of Music for all eternity, and like it. Screaming works just fine, however._

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley continues . . .

_And oh so fortunately for us, there's Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale, I could use your soft side right now._

Aziraphale morphs into his female form, a luscious creamy Venus right out of a Boucher painting, high breasts like delicious cherry-topped cupcakes, just the right size to fit comfortably under a hand. Crowley's hand, specifically, as he now caresses the angel. Aziraphale's skin is deliciously cool against his heated body.

_Angel, you feel like ice cream. Mmmmmmfff . . ._

He slides a leg over her lap, buries his head atop her shoulder and they fall over onto the other pillow.

* * *

[Those curious to know, try Google Images for the 18th century painter Francois Boucher]


	24. Doing Remarkable Things to an Oyster

Tadfield. Still mid-morning. The Bookshop back room. Crowley has been kissing Aziraphale all over her body, working his way gradually downward to the fuzzy golden muff nestled between her creamy thighs - which he now spreads apart by gently pushing on her raised knees.

_Mmmmmm . . . Angel, would you like me to do remarkable things to an oyster?_

_Don't hurry, my dear. Go slow._

Crowley proceeds to nibble and lick with his surprisingly tongue until Aziraphale starts to pant and gasp, her back arched and nipples hard as ruby pebbles atop her pink areolas.

_Crowley . . . I can't hold back much longer . . . get inside me._

The demon rises to his knees, grasps the angel's ankles and raises her legs atop his shoulders, exposing her now rosy and wet labia and plump red clitoral cherry, a crimson gash surrounded by golden curls and pillowy whipped cream belly, buttocks and thighs. With an animal growl of lust, he pushes himself inside the angel. Aziraphale barely has time to rock and roll her hips until she cries out, overcome by a massive Divine Ecstasy.

_AAAAAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhh! . . . Crowley! . . . Crowley! . . . _

Her cries and moans and muscular contractions send the demon right into Divine Ecstasy with her. Her soft, satiny legs slide down and lock around his back as he collapses against her breasts. Several hours pass.

* * *

Crowley withdraws and rolls onto his side along Aziraphale, his penis draped over her thigh. She holds him in her arms and lazily caresses him and strokes her fingers through his hair. Aziraphale murmurs,

_Well. So much for brunch with Madam Tracy._

_I'm sure they'll sort things out._

_Mind if I go back to being a man again?_

_Do. And then you must kiss me, you handsome brute._

Aziraphale laughs, and transforms.

_You have a yellow pubic hair on your lip. _

They both laugh. Aziraphale brushes off the offending curl and kisses Crowley thoroughly and hard while the demon rests his warm hand atop the angel's giblets.

_You taste like amaretto_

_You and me together, Angel? A match made in Heaven?*_

They spend the night cuddling and nuzzling and enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to one another, secure in each other's arms.

* * *

*"Scents," and "Upholstered Granite," Chapters 10 & 11


	25. Tiger of the Jungle

Tadfield. Back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. The angel and demon are seated in their comfort position on the Persian carpet in front of the angel's armchair, backs supported by the two giant pillows from the settee. Aziraphale's head is on Crowley's shoulder and his arm is hugging the demon's chest.

_I don't suppose you've got any of that raw rye whiskey* in your liquor cabinet, Crowley? _

Crowley opens a hand and a bottle appears in it. He magics it open and hands it to Aziraphale, who takes a long drink straight from the bottle, then shudders and convulses as it burns its way down. He continues to drink throughout their conversation.

_You know, some Bubba Kush might be a less painful way to relax._

_I don't want to relax. I want to feel numb._

_Being a statue for three days* was a rough go? Were you actually conscious? _

_I could see and hear and feel everything, Crowley. Just couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Completely paralyzed. I felt buried alive. Couldn't even scream. _

_Did it hurt?_

_Didn't hurt. Well, not much. Shoulders sore from having my arms tied back. _

_Looks like those cuffs hurt your wrists._

The angel's wrists are ringed with red and purple.

_It's going away. I'll be fine in a few hours._

_Here, shift in front of me. I'll massage them for you._

Aziraphale drinks the last of the bottle, hiccups once, sets the empty aside. They scoot around until the angel is slouched against Crowley's chest, surrounded by the demon's arms. Crowley's heated fingers gently stroke small circles over the angel's wrist bruises.

_Gabriel had Housekeeping put me on display in the corridor outside his office. Do you know, one of them had the effrontery to give me a pat. Said I had "Nice junk." _

_Well, you do, you know._

_I _don't_ know. It's never been something that's concerned me for even a second. And while I like being without clothes when I'm with you, to be naked on public display is just hu . . .hum . . .humil. . ._

Aziraphale's breathing is now rapid shallow gasps. He rolls off Crowley's lap and buries his face in the pillow. Crowley may not cry, but Aziraphale does. The dark emotions he's been keeping at bay the last three days rise to the surface in an upwelling flood of poison.

Crowley lies atop the angel, folds his arms over the shaking shoulders and encloses Aziraphale's clenched hands. His long hair spills over the angel's neck and shoulder as he murmurs in his ear.

_Angel. Angel. I'm here. . . . It's over . . . You'll be all right . . ._

The heat and weight from Crowley's demon body is the antidote the angel needs. It's like being under a sinuous hot water bottle. His sobs gradually subside and he lies limply beneath the demon. Crowley runs a hand through Aziraphale's lambswool hair and kisses his ear.

_You really do have nice junk, you know._

_Dammit, Crowley._

_And such a delicious soft body . . . Mmmmmmm . . . The tiger of the jungle leaps atop his quivering prey . . ._

Crowley writhes sideways and makes fierce growling noises as he pretends to devour Aziraphale like a mighty tiger, hands digging into and kneading the angel's shoulders and backside as he snarls and makes mock bites. Aziraphale laughs and rolls over. Crowley straddles the angel's thighs, continues with the growling and pawing and biting all over Aziraphale's belly and flanks and chest, then grabs the angel's hands and pins his arms alongside his head. The demon's serpentine penis does a slow spiral around Aziraphale's growing erection. Crowley lies atop the angel, their faces nose to nose, golden eyes with slit pupils gazing into wide open soft grey eyes. A passionate kiss and they're off into Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

*_Jack of Diamonds_

*_The Big One_


	26. Pentangle

Crowley sinks once again to the floor into a catatonic crouch - feet crossed, head upon his knees, arms folded protectively over his head. Aziraphale kneels next to him, puts an arm around the demon's shoulder and his hand atop Crowley's. Carefully extends his snowy wings and folds them around himself and Crowley, enclosing them in their own feathered shell.*

Time passes. Aziraphale detects that Crowley is finally beginning to relax. The angel's hand strays down from the demon's shoulder, caresses his back. Moves a bit lower and brushes his tailbone and tickles his ass crack. Crowley uncrumples and crouches across Aziraphale's lap, backside elevated.

_Mmmmpf. Do that some more._

The angel continues to stroke and caress and tickle Crowley's crack, backside, and thighs, gentle fingers reaching in and massaging the demon's balls.

_Angel, two years ago, did you ever imagine you'd be tickling a demon's bollocks?_

_Crowley, so many things have happened since I capitulated to your wiles that playing with your backside scarcely moves the needle on the dial. _

_Speaking of backsides, Angel, let's see what your new tramp stamp looks like._

"_Tramp stamp"?!_

Crowley grins, raises himself and gives the angel a gentle push. Aziraphale obligingly straightens out and rolls over onto his stomach.

_It's a red star. A pentangle, two points uppermost. Apparently the mate to my gold one. Does it hurt?_

_Can't feel a thing. Bit numb, actually. You can keep tickling my tailbone, though. I can feel that._

_How about this?_

Crowley lies atop Aziraphale. His serpentine penis gives a twitch as it neatly aligns itself between the angel's buttocks.

_Angel. You make me feel as if I'm lying atop an ice floe. Unbelievably soothing._

Aziraphale meanwhile is relaxing into putty from the heat of Crowley's demonic body.

_You make me feel warm and protected, Crowley. _

_Well, that's more than a bit ironic, now isn't it?_

_Perhaps._

They continue to bask in one another's body temperatures for a long while. Then . . .

_Crowley, I could do with a bit of champagne._

This has become a code phrase between them. Crowley magics a bottle of Cristal and two glasses onto the little table between the settee and armchair.

_I'm all for that kind of aperitif, Angel. _

He rises and plumps one of the giant pillows onto the settee as Aziraphale pours champagne. Does his park bench sprawl in the middle of the pillow. Aziraphale hands him a glass, they clink a toast, take a long sip each. Aziraphale drops to his knees between Crowley's legs and proceeds to stroke his flanks and minister to the demon's growing erection. Crowley drains his glass of champagne as he lovingly massages his fingers through the angel's wooly hair.

_Mmmmmmm. Better than eating an éclair._

_Now I'll never be able to eat one of those in public again, Angel._

The demon's toes turn up and his champagne glass drops to the carpet as he releases into Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale keeps him there for well over an hour, sipping champagne whenever his mouth feels a bit dry.

* * *

*_The Big One_, Chapter 39: _Branded_


	27. A Relaxing Lorry Ride to London

Inside the cab of a lorry traveling to London. Ammun is driving this time. He glances briefly at Uriel as he speaks.

_What do you suppose those two got up to in the hall after the vicar left?_

_What worries me is the kid on the bike. DeeDee. The little demon. You saw her stick out her tongue at us, right?_

_She seems to share your talent for walking through walls._

_And according to Adam, she put it to good use when the humans were trying to get into Aziraphale's bookshop._

_Helping rescue an angel. Not exactly something you'd expect a demon to do, now is it? _

_No. I can't figure it out. What side is she on? _

_Hell's, of course. Think about it. You're a menial demon and you find yourself outside of Hell – maybe for the first time – and in the company of a powerful seraph. Must be intoxicating._

_Crowley? Powerful? _

_You remember what I told you about Beelzebub warning me off Adam and Crowley? She considers Crowley to be our young Antichrist's protector. You wouldn't assign some schmo to that sort of task._

_Beelzebub certainly made that point clear to the Heavenly Host. Gabriel in particular._

_I think Crowley has the stuff, he just doesn't use it. Not the way Beelzebub would like him to, at least. Has his own notions. Seraphim are proud bastards, right down to their celestial marrow._

Something has been bothering Uriel.

_Were Crowley and Anubis lovers?_

_No. He's more like Anubis's sidekick, his wing man. Literally. You've seen Crowley's demonic wings, right?_

_Just a sort of shadowy outline. _

_Saw the claws?_

_Oh lord._

_Yeah. Aziraphale's demon lover. _

_I continue to think we underestimated Aziraphale, as well as his boyfriend in dark glasses. _

The two angels are silent for a long while.

_Do you suppose they're holding hands back there?_

_We could check the trailer cam and find out._

_No way. Absolutely not._

_Right._

* * *

In the lorry trailer. Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting alongside one another in the center of the padded wall closest the cab, holding hands. Aziraphale is looking a bit peaky after encountering Gabriel as a statue, fresh from doing time in such a terrible prison himself. Crowley is stowing his phone, having completed a terse call to Evgeny. He regards the angel.

The demon snaps his fingers to set his and Aziraphale's sporrans aside. Morphs into his frightening snake demoness form. Swings a leg over, kneels astride the angel's lap. Pulls both their kilts up so their bare flesh is touching.

_Do me, Aziraphale. I need you. Now._

She runs ruby claws through the angel's fluffy white hair. Extends a thick black forked serpent's tongue and flicks it over his lips and face and ears. Horned sidewinder eyes lock with Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale slips his hands under the demon's sinfully soft pullover and silk undershirt, caresses her breasts. As she raises herself and mounts his erection, his head falls back and his face assumes his St. Teresa in Ecstasy expression; his hands slide around to clutch her body close to him.

Crowley arches her back, red hair spilling down over her shoulders. She emits a hissing sigh as powerful contractions send her, too, into Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

About an hour later.

The lorry parks, the engine idling. Uriel and Ammun debark and go around the back to open the freight doors. The lovers disengage. Crowley morphs to male, and they adjust their kilts and sporrans. Aziraphale regards Crowley, murmurs:

_Thank you, my dear. I needed that._

[chapter continues at _The Big One_]


	28. Piroshky and Whiskey

A rundown London suburb. A vintage Bentley snakes slowly along the streets, keeping just out of sight of a black Mercedes ahead, assisted by the GPS tracker magicked into place behind the vehicle's glovebox. The Mercedes stops at a long light at a busy arterial. When the light changes and the car is halfway through the intersection, the occupants are chagrined to discover that all four tires have gone flat. Pulling across and parking illegally along a double-striped curb, they get out and discover the tires have been thoroughly shredded. And that a large fluorescent Day-glo red serpentine tag is now painted on the boot.

The tracker is a proprietary design that can be remotely turned off and on to evade bug detectors. Crowley turns it off, calls Evgeny, and speeds up to continue his cruise homeward at 90mph, traffic unwillingly permitting.

_Heigh ho_, says Anthony Crowley.

* * *

Crowley's Mayfair flat. Aziraphale is seated on the couch, glass of scotch in one hand, book in another. Crowley bursts through the door, runs into the kitchen.

_I brought you a piroshky. _

Grabbing a plate and a napkin, he brings the pastry out to Aziraphale. Touches it to warm it up as he hands it over. Who needs a microwave. Flicks his hand to transform his street clothing into the Escher-patterned silk dressing gown, trots over to the liquor cabinet and retrieves a bottle of raw rye whiskey. Magics away the stopper as he seats himself next to Aziraphale, takes a swig straight from the bottle, winces as the liquor burns its way down. Then takes another swig. Cringes. Another swig.

_Bit of a difficult trip?_

_Not really. Just the frosting atop the cake of this week's events. How's the piroshky?_

Aziraphale breaks it in half, takes a bite.

_Mmm. Excellent. Salmon, my favorite. Will you have half?_

_No, eat up. Just had a business lunch, you could say. The massive quantity of bread and liverwurst paved the way for this whiskey. On the bright side, it looks as if we're going to have to place yet another refugee in Tadfield. The baker of these piroshkys, to be exact. But let's not talk about that now._

They sit companionably and consume their piroshky and bottle of whiskey, respectively.

_Finish up your scotch to wash that salmon off your breath. I need a kiss, and don't want fish with it._

Aziraphale laughs, and obliges. Sets down his empty glass.

Crowley flings himself atop the angel's lap, straddling him. Then delivers a long, thorough kiss.

_You taste like a kipper._

Crowley shrugs his dressing gown off to his waist, stretches his arms up to run his fingers through his hair to release the braids, shakes it over his shoulders like a russet mane. Meanwhile Aziraphale runs his hands over the slender demon's flanks and ribs and armpits.

_And you positively stink of sex. I love how you smell, Crowley. Sex and wood smoke and whiskey._

The demon slides his hands inside the angel's robe and pushes it off his shoulders and down his arms, opening it in the front so just the golden cord remains around Aziraphale's waist. Which he finds oddly erotic. His own gown slips off his hips and onto the floor.

Aziraphale pulls his hands free of the gown's sleeves, caresses Crowley's back, then runs his hands over the demon's chest, fingering his nipples until they're like ball bearings.

Crowley's penis in the meanwhile has spiraled around the angel's erection. Aziraphale's arms hug the demon close as he arches his back and releases into Divine Ecstasy, fingers clutching the angel's wooly head. Aziraphale's rocks and rolls his hips and joins Crowley in release, eyes closed in bliss.


	29. Transport

Tadfield. The sky is still dark in an early November dawn. Inside the former equipment storage shed at Crowley's Croll Farm. Uriel and Ammun are in the back of their lorry with brooms, about to tidy it a bit and check things over preparatory to the day's moving job.

Uriel kneels before the front padded wall behind the cab.

_Ammun. Look at this._

She crouches forward, arms outstretched and fingers splayed out to match the 10 slits in the padding.

What Ammun notices first Is Uriel's lovely backside. Uriel continues:

_It has to be Crowley. I can't imagine Aziraphale doing this._

_Told you he has claws. Not just on his wings. When he's female-presenting._

_Well. I guess we know what he and Aziraphale were doing during that drive to London last week._

Before she can move, Ammun magics away her overall and undergarments as well as his own. A swift appreciate look at her delicious chocolate body. Flings himself onto his back, pushing his head between her legs.

_A little warm-up, then you can treat me to the same?_

Uriels hands clutch Ammun's curly dark locks as his beard and lips tickle her. Angels don't waste time, and soon she's moaning with pleasure, wet and ready. The two reposition themselves, Ammun sitting with his back to the wall. Uriel straddles his hips, eases herself atop his erection, places her fingers back atop the slits in the padding, then through the slits as Ammun caresses her breasts and she and he rapture into Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

**The author thanks those who've persevered all these weeks and made the effort to do reviews, faves, and follows. Virtual high five!**


	30. FullGoose Two

Aziraphale levitates himself until he's floating at a diagonal above the bed, arms outstretched.

_Remember our safe word, Crowley._

_Michael._

_Yes._

With the frightening easy grace of a stalking predator, Crowley slowly raises himself up from his coils on the floor, glides between the angel's legs and over his hip

As the snake moves, the angel can feel its belly scales massaging his skin. His hands caress the silken muscular body. The snake feels the delectable chill of the angel's icy skin . . . Ssssssssss . . .

back around over his buttocks . . .

around again across the front of his thighs . . .

coils around the ankle of the angel's raised leg, constricts a bit (_"You're my prisoner.")_ . . .

extends his neck and coils across the shin of the angel's opposite leg . . .

glides across the backs of the angel's calves in a looping coil . . .

then up Aziraphale's back, between his wings . . .

When Crowley's snake shoulders are level with Aziraphale's, he flares his streamlined black pterosaur wings atop the angel's gilded swan wings . . .

The demon's large amber claws hook onto the tips of the angel's spiraling ivory horns, pulling Aziraphale's ram's head nearly vertical. The angel reaches his arms up, grasps his horns at their base. His muscles tighten as he wrestles to pull his head more forward to relieve the arch in his back . . .

Crowley's serpent's tongue flicks and tickles the angel's furry leaf blade of an ear . . .

rubs his smooth scaly lips over the ram's fuzzy muzzle. . .

slithers down across the angel's shoulder, rubbing his lips over and tongue flicking at the angel's erect nipples . . . navel . . .

The serpent's tail has now glided below the angel's penis. He extends his hemipenes around and presses his tail against the angel's erection, tightening his coil around the angel's backside and thighs. Aziraphale rocks his hips to further stimulate the hemipenes.

Laying his head and neck atop the angel's chest ruff, the serpent's tongue flicks out and tickles the angel's penis. The he rubs his smooth scaley lips over the tip.

Aziraphale's eyes roll up in his head and he moans as Divine Ecstasy seems to well up from deep inside him, an artesian geyser of power. His body has become illuminated like a lamp.

Crowley hisses and his pupils become wide and dark as Divine Ecstasy pulses through him as if he were a fire hose, red belly and body striping glowing red as if lit by internal coals.

The pair are now suspended nearly vertical, twisting slowly in space.

* * *

Gradually they resume consciousness of their surroundings, relax and gaze into one another's eyes.

_I'll go first. You don't want 300 pounds of snake falling on you._

In a blink, Crowley is once again a human-shaped male who drops gracefully to the bed. Another blink, and Aziraphale tumbles atop him. Crowley writhes around and curls himself against Aziraphale.

_Mmmmmmm . . . a bolster from Heaven. Hug me, Angel._

_Crowley, I feel completely disoriented. It's twilight outside. Were we only consumed for an hour?_

Crowley magics on his watch.

_Nuh-uh. It's the next day! We were out for over 24 hours._

_Good lord. _

_Do you feel as if you could power southern England?_

_Positively nuclear._

_I want to eat. It's Saturday night. Mayfair's best restaurants await._

_Let's start with sushi._

_You're on._

* * *

Alas, something else awaits them in Mayfair.

* * *

Mood music for this episode was Kenji Kawai's soundtrack for the 1995 Ghost in the Shell.

YouTube GvaC6cIrntI

I like the eerie traditional wedding chant, but if you think it sounds like yowling cats, just slide to 3:10 for the slow drums sequence.


	31. Homecoming, Continued

[The continuation of _Chapter 51, Homecoming_, in _The Big One]_

Tadfield. Back room of Aziraphale's bookshop. Aziraphale flings himself onto the giant pillows on the floor in front of the settee, followed by Crowley atop him.

_Oh, Crowley, you feel so warm. It was a bit chilly up there in the clouds._

_Mmmmmm . . . my favorite bolster. Cool as silk satin. I could lie here forever._

Crowley brushes a hand upward over Aziraphale's wooly hair, nuzzles the nape of his neck, then resumes his tight embrace of the angel, his russet hair spilling over the Aziraphale's shoulder. They lie together for a long while, simply basking in the comfort of one another's bodies. Then . . .

_Crowley, do I feel the stirring of demonic lust?_

Aziraphale crooks his leg to the side, feels the demon's penis twitch and nudge up against his testicles.

_Close your legs, Aziraphale._

The angel obliges, crossing his legs at the ankles.

_Mmmmmm . . . cozy._

Crowley moves his arms so that they can roll a bit onto their sides. Aziraphale drapes one arm over his head and the demon caresses his flanks and chest, then grasps the angel's growing erection. Crowley's done this massage often enough by now to know just what spots Aziraphale enjoys most, and carefully works his fingers to tease the angel. Finally Aziraphale gasps, and clutches Crowley's hand.

_Crowley. Wait. Are you ready, too?_

_Yessssss . . ._

A final movement of Crowley's hand, a few thrusts of his hips, and they're both awash in the waves of Divine Ecstasy.


	32. Naked

Mayfair, London. The couch in the lounge in Crowley's flat. A couple of champagne bottles and glasses litter the floor. Aziraphale and Crowley are sitting alongside one another - Crowley sprawled in a skinny version of the Barberini Faun pose, his arm around the angel's shoulder, Aziraphale sitting with his knees together, hands in his lap.

_Angel, here we are, a couple of bottles down, about to commit unspeakable acts of demonic lust, and you're still sitting as primly as if you're being interviewed by Michael._

Aziraphale relaxes his arms a bit, puts one hand on Crowley's thigh.

_Yes. I just seem to do it unconsciously. Six thousand years of trying to be nice and modest and never daring to even think about sex . . . simply doesn't wear off quickly enough, I suppose._

_You don't enjoy prancing around naked, at last?_

Aziraphale laughs.

_Do you know, Crowley, I very seldom completely removed my clothing in all those centuries? Only when figuring out how to wear a new costume whenever I decided it was time for a change. Afterwards I simply left my clothes on. We don't bathe or sleep, as you know. Well, you do sleep, but I think you're an exception in that regard._

_I like bathing in ice water. Cold showers, too. Feels good on my hot skin._

_Perhaps I should try a hot bath some time. _

_C'mon, Angel. You never visited the Roman baths? _

The angel shifts uncomfortably.

_Well, there was that one time, with you. _

Crowley smiles ruefully. Aziraphale continues:

_What a pair of asses we were. I think that's was queered me on visiting bath houses. Didn't want to repeat that distressing experience._

_Well now, maybe we should try a bath together sometime. Except we probably couldn't agree on a water temperature. It would either be too hot for me, or too cold for you. _

_I suspect we could work it out if we tried. _

They exchange significant looks.

_With oysters._

_Rome, 41 A.D., Version Two._

_Bound to turn out better this time._

Aziraphale strokes Crowley's thigh, then flings himself off the couch, kneeling between the demon's legs. Caresses Crowley's giblets. Proceeds with obvious enjoyment to give the demon a blowjob that sends him into Divine Ecstasy in short order. Aziraphale smiles and continues to pleasure Crowley for over an hour.

* * *

_Mmmmmmmmff . . . Angel. That was wicked._

Aziraphale kisses Crowley's groin as the demon ruffles the angel's wooly hair.

_Your turn, now._

Aziraphale rises and sits on the couch. The gaze at one another, Crowley sticking out his remarkable tongue and wiggling it provokingly. Then the demon snakes off the couch and kneels before Aziraphale. Who, once more, is sitting with knees closed. Crowley gently pries apart the angel's legs.

_There you go again, Angel. I feel as if I'm cracking open a pair of rusty cupboard doors._

Sensing Aziraphale's anxiety, Crowley rises from the floor to the couch again. Lies across Aziraphale's lap, backside up, his penis snaked over the angel's.

_It's all right, Aziraphale. Play with me. Tickle me. Please._

He wiggles his backside, sighs with pleasure as the angel caresses him. Aziraphale gradually relaxes and slouches with his head resting on the back of the sofa. Crowley glides backward and starts to slurp and nibble at angel's erection.

_Mmmmmm . . . love your tequila taste . . ._

Aziraphale strokes Crowley's shoulder, runs his fingers through the demon's long russet hair. Then, with a soft moan, he releases into Divine Ecstasy. Crowley keeps him aloft for another hour.

* * *

Crowley gets up and walks to the bedroom, returns wearing his silk dressing gown with the Escher snake print, Aziraphale's lavender plaid flannel gown draped over his arm.

_Well. That was a nice champagne aperitif. Let's go to the kitchen for some cocoa and cookies._

He holds Aziraphale' robe for him to don, gives him a hug from behind as the angel tightens the waist cord. Once in the kitchen, Aziraphale sits on one of the comfy leather stools at the counter while Crowley bustles about doing various things, finally seating himself at the counter as well.

_Here's your cocoa breve. And some cookies._

Aziraphale opens the tin, to reveal a half dozen of what appear to be large peanut butter cookies. With a somewhat herbal aroma. Crowley in the meantime has fired up his vaporizer and is taking a puff.

_I wouldn't recommend eating more than two of those cookies, or I'll have to drag you into the bedroom._

_Mmmm. Delicious._

They sit companionably and enjoy their respective snacks. Then:

_Let's go cuddle in bed._

Crowley levitates and floats into a horizontal position above Aziraphale's head. The angel reaches up to grab a handful of the demon's hanging long red hair and gently pulls him along like a man-shaped balloon. He did not see the video clip of the Disposable Demons dragging Crowley from Beelzebub's office by his hair.

_I'm not tugging too hard, am I, Crowley?_

_Oh no. Feels great. You have the gentlest touch. Even better than Peter at the salon._

They pile the giant pillows so they can sit in bed. Crowley shrugs his robe off his shoulders, curls up against Aziraphale's fuzzy chest.

_Pet me, Angel. _

Aziraphale smiles and runs his fingers through the demon's hair, massaging his scalp. Caresses his shoulders and back. Crowley sighs deeply and closes his eyes. Then murmurs . . .

_It's been a rough couple of weeks, hasn't it, Angel._

_Indeed. _

_Do you think, Angel, that perhaps your anxiety about your body is a hangover from that statue experience? _

_I've been wondering that very thing. _

_Six millennia of repression didn't seem to have affected your enthusiasm much once we discovered Divine Ecstasy. It's just recently that you've been edgy._

The angel shudders.

_Gabriel and Michael and The Twins gazing at me as if I'm some sort of ugly mess was the absolute worst. Oh, Hell._

He's once again unstoppered the hidden well of emotional poison and it flows out unchecked. He's unable to stifle his quiet sobs. Crowley pulls the pillows out from behind them so that Aziraphale can lie prone. Opens the angel's robe, takes off his own, stretches his warm body out atop Aziraphale, hugs him tightly, buries his face against the angel's neck.

_Angel. I'm here. You're safe. Just let it out._

Eventually Aziraphale calms and stops breathing.

_You must think me such a wuss, Crowley._

_Don't be an ass, Aziraphale. Of course I don't. I know quite nicely and accurately how you're feeling. It kills me to think what they've done to you. I'm Fallen, I get punished. But you don't deserve that treatment. Not at all._

Aziraphale's expression changes.

_I don't think you've deserved the punishment you've received, Crowley. The injustice is staggering._

The only part of the Disposable Demons' videos that Aziraphale heard before he fled the room with his hands over his ears was, _". . . those Seraphim can really take it. He's still screaming." _Crowley's background screams echo through his mind. He pulls his arms out from Crowley' grasp and hugs the demon as tightly as he can.

_Oh, Crowley._

Punishment. Crowley has a flashback of Beelzebub caressing his backside. Writhes onto his side, pulling his knees up and crossing his ankles, hands clutched over his genitals. His breathing has become shallow gasps.

_Not enough kush. Lay on top of me, Angel._

Crowley stiffly uncoils and lies on his stomach. Aziraphale shrugs off his robe and lies atop him. Feels Crowley gradually relax and stop breathing.

_Oh, Angel. You're so cool and soothing. _

Aziraphale kisses the demon's neck and shoulder. Crowley rolls out from under him. They're on their sides, gazing at one another.

_Kiss me, Aziraphale. Kiss me like you want me._

Aziraphale gently pushes Crowley onto his back, straddles his hips. Caresses the demon's chest. Thrusts his hands through Crowley's hair and kisses him hard and thoroughly. Then grasps Crowley's wrists and lightly pins the demon's arms alongside his head. Plants soft ice cream kisses all over Crowley's shoulders and chest, feeling the demon dissolve with pleasure, their mutual erections stiffening.

_Do Wings, Aziraphale. On your back._

Aziraphale flares his wings, floats off and away from Crowley and into the middle of the room, rolls over onto his back. A look of determination appears on his face as he spread eagles himself, letting his arms fall and his legs bend down at the knees.

Crowley stands on the bed, flares his raven wings, floats up between Aziraphale's legs, stroking the angel's inner thighs as he rises.

_Attaboy. Bollocks to Heaven._

Aziraphale laughs.

_Crowley, you are so resolutely awful. _

_Mmmm . . . Thank you, Aziraphale. Tell me I'm terrible, too._

_You are terrible. Totally. Totally terrible and awful._

Crowley is now atop Aziraphale, hands clutching the angel's buttocks. His snaky penis spirals around the angel's erection.

The pair float silently for hours, consumed by Divine Ecstasy.


	33. Bollocks to Heaven

Follow-up to the "Fade and a Quiff" chapter at _The Big One._

* * *

Tadfield. Late Evening. Back room of the bookshop. Aziraphale is wearing his frayed old Victorian cut velvet dressing gown, is on the settee with his feet on the hassock. Crowley is wearing himself, lying curled with his head in the angel's lap. Aziraphale is petting Crowley's fuzzy fade and running his fingers through the quiff.

_Do I feel like your robe, Angel?_

_A bit. But ni- . . . er, more pleasant. You're warm. And this robe has a silk lining. Always feels a bit chilly at first._

_You were going to say, "nicer," weren't you._

_But I caught myself this time. Surely that is an improvement?_

_Nothing could improve you, Angel. Say "nice" all you like. I'll just try to get a grip._

_No. I'll continue trying to eliminate that word from my vocabulary. Don't like tweaking you._

Crowley takes the angel's hand and kisses it. Rises and goes over to the liquor cabinet, returns with a glassful of scotch for each of them. Plops himself alongside Aziraphale with one arm around the angel's shoulder, a knee raised in his Barberini Faun pose. Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley's thigh. The demon clinks his glass against Aziraphale's.

_Bollocks to Heaven._

Aziraphale grins.

_I say, Crowley, I like that one._

They take a long while to companionably sip through their scotch, simply enjoying one another's presence.

But eventually things begin to stir. Aziraphale's hand strokes Crowley's inner thigh. Crowley magics their glasses back into the cabinet. Transforms into snake demoness form, and rolls over to sit astride Aziraphale's lap. She's retained the short haircut instead of the usual cascade of russet locks.

_Ohhh. Crowley. You look quite . . . delectably dangerous._

The demon pulls Aziraphale's sash loose, opens his robe, and pushes it off his shoulders. The angel pulls his arms free. Crowley draws close, slit serpent irises gazing into soft gray ones. A thick black forked tongue slides from the demon's soft rosy lips, flicking over Aziraphale's face. The angel half closes his eyes, opens his mouth. Crowley's serpent tongue tickles the angel's lips and tongue. Ruby claws stroke through Aziraphale's wooly hair as his hands caress the demon's soft sides, back, and firm bottom. She writhes from side to side, rubbing her nipples against his chest hair until they're firm as red currants. Aziraphale caresses her breasts, Crowley sighing with pleasure as the angel gently tweaks her nipples. Aziraphale is breathing hard.

_Crowley. Please._

The demon raises herself a bit, wriggles and slides her plump and wet clitoris up the angel's erection. She slowly lowers herself until Aziraphale is completely inside. Slippery and tight. It takes only one rotation of her hips to release them both into waves of Divine Ecstasy.

Hours later, after they've disengaged, Aziraphale magics away the puncture marks in the settee's upholstery.


	34. Levitation

[continuation of _The Big One, _Chapter 54, Uriel's Report. Mood music is Erik Satie's _Gnossiennes_ ]

Tadfield. Backroom of bookshop. Crowley and Aziraphale have just returned from hearing Uriel's report at Janet and Georgia's house. Aziraphale has an odd look on his face, and is standing with his hands clasped at his waist as if he's uncertain about something. Crowley comes up behind and hugs him.

_Angel. What is it._

_Crowley. Remember the night you made love to me as a statue? . . . Would you do that again?_

Crowley considers for a long moment.

_Angel, do you think that's wise?_

_I don't know. Can we find out?_

_Very well, Angel. Assume the position._

Aziraphale stands with his arms folded behind his back. Crowley magics away their clothing. Regards the angel for a moment, then fetches Aziraphale's old cut velvet dressing gown. Pulls the sash out of the loops, and ties it firmly around Aziraphale's upper thighs with a half bow knot, easily untied.

_Consider yourself imprisoned._

Crowley stands behind the angel, reaches out and caresses the backs of the angel's hands. Runs his hands up Aziraphale's arms and caresses his shoulders.

_Let's do a slight variation._

The demon takes Aziraphale's hands, unfolds his arms and guides them so they're re-folded atop the angel's head. Aziraphale stiffens and gasps as Crowley leans close, abdomen pressed against the angel's back, and plants slow kisses along Aziraphale's shoulders and neck. Then leans outward a bit and, hands on the angel's flanks, kisses the angel all around his shoulder blades and down his back . . . Extends his tongue and licks upward along Aziraphale's spine. Leans forward and gives Aziraphale a sinuous lick behind an ear.

Aziraphale's eyes are closed and his breathing shallow.

Moving around to Aziraphale's front, Crowley gently strokes the angel's flanks and slowly and deliberately plants delicate kisses all over the angel's face. A loving tongue kiss to Aziraphale's partially opened lips.

Strokes Aziraphale's chest, running his fingers through the angel's fuzzy chest hair and caressing his nipples. Massages his pectorals . . . runs hands down Aziraphale's ribs . . . over the angel's belly, fingers softly circling and tickling his navel.

Crowley steps as close as he can and folds his arms around the angel in a tight embrace, feeling Aziraphale's cool skin against his hot body. Aziraphale shudders. The demon slowly sinks to his knees, hands stroking downward along the angel's flanks and around to clutch his backside. Rubs his face against the angel's groin and platinum blonde bush. Gives a tongue kiss to the angel's shaft.

Aziraphale moans. Crowley pulls the knot loose from the tight sash, and the angel's urgent erection rises promptly into the demon's already open mouth.

Aziraphale cries out as he releases into Divine Ecstasy and falls backward, levitating away from the floor and letting his limp arms hang alongside, fingertips brushing the carpet. He feels like a firehose gushing power into Crowley as Divine Ecstasy pulses through him.

Crowley continues to caress the angel's body and give oral attention to Aziraphale's shaft. How he loves the taste of Aziraphale's skin – chill, stony as a salty seaside pebble. His own erection is becoming unbearably intense, so he levitates himself a bit, extending his legs back and letting his penis spiral around Aziraphale's. Hugs the angel's cool and soothing body to himself, nuzzling Aziraphale's neck. Writhes his stomach against the angel's and rotates his hips. His feet twine together and his toes curl as he, too, surrenders. They float for hours in the tidal rip currents of Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

The two are lying on the giant pillows atop the carpet, Aziraphale in Crowley's arms as the demon languidly runs his fingers through the angel's wooly curls.

_Feel better, Angel?_

_We should be glowing like lamps._

_Just what happened when you transformed back out of that marble statue? Was it something you did?_

_I don't know. I just felt as if I were about to burst, your caresses were like energy flowing into me. Your hands are so firm and warm. But I couldn't move. The frustration was insane. It was terrifying. But I couldn't scream. And when I felt your kiss on my penis, the dam just broke. It was if I simultaneously shattered and melted. It hurt. A lot._

_Was it like that this time?_

_No, thank Heaven. This time was wonderful. _

_Hm. Well, if I ever get turned to stone, you just get right to work and revive me with a massage and a blow job, all right? _

Aziraphale laughs. Then shivers. He clutches Crowley as tightly as he can.

_Hold me tight, Crowley._


	35. Fallen, Afterward

[Continuation of _The Big One, _Chapter 58: Fallen]

London. The lounge of Crowley's Mayfair flat. Aziraphale is hugging Crowley tightly as the demon recovers from yet another little episode of fury and despair. He snaps his fingers, and their clothing transforms into their dressing gowns – Crowley's dark Escher snakes print with the ruby silk lining, Aziraphale's lavender tartan with the golden silk velvet lining and the twisted gold silk cord that Crowley finds so strangely erotic.

_Crowley. Let's go to bed and cuddle for awhile. _

Crowley looks unhappy. Aziraphale takes the demon's hand, puts an arm around his waist, and steers him toward the bedroom.

_Come on, my pet. _

An amused smile creeps onto Crowley's lips as he gives Aziraphale some side eye. Once they've climbed aboard the bed, sitting propped against giant pillows, he throws himself across Aziraphale's lap, his head on the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale embraces him and strokes the demon's velvety fade, runs fingers through his quiff.

_I do so like your new haircut._

_And I like being petted by you._

Some very gentle and pleasurable time passes. Then Aziraphale pushes Crowley's robe off his shoulders. Crowley sits up and does the same for Aziraphale, noting yet again the fascination that golden cord around the angel's waist holds for him. The angel hugs Crowley and caresses his back.

_You're so deliciously warm._

_And you're so chill and soothing._

_Made for each other._

_Mmmmmm . . . _

More gentle and pleasurable time passes. Then . . .

_Kiss me, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale gently pushes Crowley backward toward the foot of the bed, then crouches alongside him. Runs his hands up the demon's flanks and chest, then leans over and kisses Crowley as if the demon were made of ambrosia and he was starving. Repositions himself between Crowley's legs. Crowley reaches up and undoes the cord to Aziraphale's robe, enjoying the angel's nakedness revealed as Aziraphale shrugs the robe aside. The angel pushes the demon's knees up and apart. Firm cool hands massage the demon's groin and balls, fingers gently rubbing Crowley's penis in places that Aziraphale has learned he finds especially pleasurable. The demon's eyes close and his head falls back, mouth open, arms limp at his side.

Crowley is soon stiff as a pole and making little noises.

_Angel. Please._

_Penis or pussy, Crowley?_

_P'nisssss . . ._

Aziraphale lies atop Crowley so their erections pair, levitating himself a bit. Crowley's serpentine penis twists around the angel's. Aziraphale whispers in the demon's ear:

_I love you, Crowley._

The demon's back arches, legs raise and feet twist together behind Aziraphale's back. Crowley cries out and his toes curl as he releases into Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale's body goes rigid as he, too, succumbs.

* * *

Hours later. The pair have come to and are once again in their robes, sitting propped up on the pillows.

_Angel, how about some champagne?_

Aziraphale smiles sinfully.

_Always a delight at any occasion._

Crowley stretches, then wanders out to return with an open bottle of Cristal and two glasses. He carefully pours each of them a full glass, and offers a toast:

_Heaven won't have me, and Hell's afraid I'll take over._

Aziraphale laughs and spills a bit of champagne.

_Whoops._

A flick of magic mops up the spill.

_Bollocks to Heaven._

They clink glasses and companionably work their way through the bottle.

_And now for dessert._

Crowley pulls Aziraphale's robe open, picks up an end of the golden cord and dangles the tassel, tickling the angel's giblets. Waves his hand, and the empty bottle and glasses are back on a kitchen counter. Shrugs off his robe as Aziraphale does likewise, Crowley staying the angel's hand as he goes to release the cord.

_Allow me. 'S like opening a present._

Crowley pulls the half knot out of the cord, gazes lovingly upon Aziraphale.

_Mmmmmm . . . __Such a beautiful body._

He strokes Aziraphale's chest, then writhes around until his head is upon the angel's thighs. Caresses Aziraphale's belly and platinum bush, runs a firm warm hand around his groin, balls, and penis. The angel sighs with pleasure. Rolls onto his side, grasping Crowley's backside as he slips the demon's erection into his mouth. Crowley does likewise for him. They levitate a bit so heads, arms, and legs lock together comfortably. Crowley's too long to fit entirely without doing an imitation of an esophageal probe, so Aziraphale has learned some tickles for the demon's root and surrounding territory. He flares one wing and brushes Crowley with the feather tips. With practiced ease, they release one another into Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

Early morning.

_Angel, I have to make a short business visit. Then we'll head back to Tadfield._

_I did promise to open the bookshop by noon. Humans are so importunate._

_What, you're selling drugs now?_

_Tch. Really, my dear. What an idea. No, the children are on holiday, and they like to congregate in the shop._

_Well then, an opportunity to introduce Eric to them. He's coming back with us._

_Any chance you could pick up some chocolates, Crowley?_

_I'll bet you'd like a fruitcake, too._

_Well, yes, now that you mention it. It is that time of year, after all. I'll pick up some brandy from that importer a few blocks over. We're nearly out._

_Take Eric with you._

Crowley goes off looking sharp in his latest Mafioso suit. Aziraphale dons his kendo uniform and works on his stances and parries, then dresses and goes on the brandy expedition with Eric. He treats the disposable demon to a cappuccino and a Cornish pasty as the nearby café. They return just as Crowley pulls up in the Bentley. He parks illegally and gets out.

_Anything inside you need to bring?_

_No. We're all set to go._

_Hop in then._


	36. After the Holiday Party

Continuation of _The Big One_, Chapter 57: Holiday Party  
A riff on Stephen Jay Gould's "The Hedgehog, the Fox, and the Magister's Pox."

* * *

Tadfield. Back room of the bookshop. Aziraphale is seated in his armchair and wearing his ratty old brown cut velvet dressing gown. Crowley is sprawled on his back on the Victorian settee, wearing himself – and, for some peculiar reason, the party wreath of sparkly poinsettias and plastic mistletoe. They're both sipping from brandy snifters.

_Aziraphale, assuming humans don't destroy their ecosystem and go extinct, I don't want to attend another human party for the remainder of eternity._

_Just not a mixer, eh, Crowley?_

_I'd rather spend time with you alone, Aziraphale._

Crowley takes a sip of brandy, then rolls over on his stomach, putting his brandy within reach on the carpet.

_Angel, come sit on the hassock and pet me._

_With pleasure._

Aziraphale rises and kicks the hassock alongside the settee, seats himself and proceeds to stroke Crowley's back with one hand, sipping from the brandy glass held in the other. Removing the party wreath, he fondles the demon's hair. Crowley sighs with delight.

_I wonder if those animals humans insist on sharing their homes with feel this good when they're petted. If I could purr like a feline, I would._

He reaches down and takes a sip of brandy.

_What are we to do about the vicar and Madame Tracy?_

_You're the one who got that temptation rolling, dear boy. I simply help Mr. Pickersgill with his Latin translations. He's quite the scholar, you know. I have a copy of a work by Erasmus that was elaborately and carefully censored during the Inquisition. Mr. Pickersgill found it fascinating, an artifact of the ongoing dialectic between religious belief and scientific inquiry. _

_What's a cleric with that sort of scholarship under his belt doing in a hamlet like Tadfield?_

_Quite. Perhaps he's here for reasons similar to ours. Seeking refuge from the exigencies of corporate bureaucracy?_

"_Exigencies." I love it when you talk dirty, Aziraphale._

_Tsk. You know a better word? _

"_Bullshit" works._

Aziraphale laughs.

_Didn't you just love it when he spoke about self-righteousness before Gabriel, not realizing that smug bastard was actually present and having to listen to every word?_

_I memorized it. "Prudery and self-righteousness persist throughout any age. There are many who consider themselves virtuous if they follow imaginary rules. Our Saviour is quite clear, however, that love and kindness are what we must strive for." Pretty choice, what?_

_Crowley, you never cease to astonish me._

_I liked it because it describes you, Aziraphale. Love and kindness. Resistance to silly rules. And you're coming along nicely in the prudery shedding._

Aziraphale stretches his arm backward to stroke Crowley's shapely buttocks, tickling his crack. The demon squirms.

_I rest my case._

Crowley takes a final sip and empties his glass. Rolls onto his back, clutches his penis and half closes his eyes as he has a mini-orgasm, clenching his PC muscle to quell the erection a bit and not go into Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale strokes his chest and belly.

_Let's have a bit of Divine Ecstasy, Crowley. Then we can continue to discuss the vicar._

Aziraphale stands and sheds his dressing gown. Morphs into his creamy female form. Crowley in the meantime has shoved the hassock aside and glided off the settee onto the Persian carpet.

_Sit on my face, Angel._

Aziraphale lightly straddles the demon's shoulders. Crowley's hands stroke her thighs and backside to adjust the height as he nuzzles her platinum bush and gets to work with his extraordinary tongue. The previous petting session has made the angel's clitoris as plump as a cherry, so it doesn't take long for her breathing to accelerate . . .

_Crowley. Please. Are you ready?_

_Do me, Angel._

She scootches backward, rises over the demon's erection, slowly and carefully lowers herself as she gently rocks and rolls her hips. Crowley's eyes go wide and his pupils dilate, with his mouth open in a silent gasp. His back arches as he feels her muscular contractions. He releases into Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale's head tilts back and her face assumes the St. Teresa expression as Divine Ecstasy surges through her, too. They continue for hours.


	37. Claws

London. Crowley's Mayfair flat. Late evening. Crowley and Aziraphale are returning from a light sushi dinner. They're wearing their kilts, having decided upon a casual evening out. Crowley has been a bit droopy the entire time, however.

_I say, Crowley, you seem more than a little down this evening. What is it?_

_Oh, I don't know, Angel. Just feel edgy. Out of sorts. Let's have a nightcap and cuddle in bed._

Aziraphale waves his hand downward, and they're now both in their robes. Except he's swapped his lavender tartan flannel with the velvet lining for Crowley's sik gown.

_Satan's sins, Angel. I could curl up and sleep in this right on the spot. Feels like a swan's down nest._

_Don't you dare. And when did you ever sleep in a swan's nest?_

_Snake. Back in Eden. Ate the eggs, then took a cozy nap and digested for a week. _

_You hung around in Eden after Adam and Eve were expelled?_

_Sure. You remember what a nice place it was. Took Michael awhile to find me and chase me out. Fortunately I'm faster than the average angel, so he couldn't discorporate me with that damned flaming sword. _

_Rather wish I'd been there to see that._

_Best part was when I torched his robes with my fiery breath. Satan's assboil, was he mad._

Aziraphale laughs. Crowley continues:

_Black silk suits you, I rather think. That platinum hair. You look like one of those celebrity wrestlers._

_Oh, please. As if. . . . Here's your whisky._

They amble off to the bedroom, settle themselves companionably against the giant pillows, and hold hands as they sip their scotch.

_Mm. Talisker is the best. I keep trying to talk myself into buying something else, but just can't seem to do it._

_Maybe we should go out whisky tasting some evening._

_That would be fun. Like, tomorrow night?_

'_Tis the season to be jolly._

A pleasantly relaxing time follows. Upon finishing their whisky, they contemplate one another.

_Have we ever tried female-female?_

_Haven't ever wanted to. My claws. Can't caress you when I'm wearing them._

Crowley removes his hand from Aziraphale's grasp. Morphs into snake demoness. Holds out her hand for inspection. Vicious curved ruby claws engraved with satanic sigils inlaid with gold. She runs her other hand over the black marble wall adjacent to the bed. The claws scratch powdery little lines into the stone.

_They're actual corundum, you see. Not animal claws. And they stay sharp._

She daintily pricks her leg with an index finger, and a droplet of blood wells up.

_I remember the time you clenched your fists. _

_Yep. That's what I'm talking about. A moment's inattention, and blood all over the place. You know what I do to the carpet and upholstery._

_Easily repaired._

_But pillows don't feel pain. You would. And I'd want to discorporate if I hurt you._

_I wonder if I could blunt them?_

_I've tried. I can't do it._

_Let me try._

Crowley stretches her hand toward Aziraphale, who takes the little finger and holds it between his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. The angel is watching the demon's hand, and doesn't see Crowley's face as a mask of pain comes over it. Releasing's the demon's finger, Aziraphale notices Crowley's stiffened body and expression.

_Oh good lord. Crowley, did that hurt?_

_A bit._

_You always make light of pain. It did hurt, didn't it._

_Rather like having a finger hammered, if you must know._

They contemplate the claw. It has been blunted, but then slowly regrows to its initial shape.

_Fail. __Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me._

_Nothing to forgive, Angel. Just my punishment in action yet again. Or maybe Beelzebul set me up this way because he liked it. A design feature, not a flaw. I wish they looked like my toenails._

The pair gaze at Crowley's feet. Crowley writhes around so her legs are atop Aziraphale's, feet in the angel's lap. She points her toes.

_See? A bit pointy, but not sharp._

_Rather pretty, actually. You have such slender, graceful feet._

_Back in my Philistine concubine days, I set the fashion for red toenails. All the other women wanted them. Made them feel sexy, they said. Red lips, red toenails, red nipples. But I was the only one for the job when drawing blood was required._

_Let's not reminisce about those days, shall we? I've always found human fertility rituals to be absolutely appalling. _

Aziraphale shudders. Then he morphs into his creamy female body, Crowley's feet resting upon the angel's now soft pillowy thighs.

_But as long as I have your feet in my lap, let me massage them. _

She flicks her fingers downward, and a small vial of oil appears in her hand.

_Almond oil. Don't worry, it's not sticky like olive oil._

_I never minded olive oil. Can you make it warm?_

Aziraphale briefly holds the vial in her fist to warm it up, then pours a bit upon Crowley's feet.

_Not too hot?_

_Oh no. Didn't know you angels could do that._

_Well, I can't ignite things like you can. Just warm them up a bit. Handy for keeping a mug of cocoa warm outdoors._

Aziraphale smiles as she strokes and massages Crowley's feet, making mental note of the places that cause the demon to make little breathy noises when she rubs them.

_You have very sensitive feet, Crowley._

Crowley is rapidly turning to goo, breathing in shallow gasps. And then Aziraphale rubs one spot in particular, causing Crowley's legs to jerk out of the angel's lap, and her toes to curl up.

_Angel. Do something!_

Crowley legs are orgiastically raised, her arms outstretched alongside her body with claws embedded to the quick in the bedding and mattress.

Aziraphale throws herself forward into a prone position between Crowley's legs. Massages Crowley's groin and flanks and belly, places her mouth atop the demon's labia and gets to work with her tongue and lips. The demon begins to writhe, and then pant and jerk rhythmically as pulses of Divine Ecstasy cascade through her. Aziraphale pushes Crowley's thighs closer so her legs are resting comfortably atop the angel's shoulders, and enjoys gently keep Crowley aloft for over an hour.

But Crowley hasn't had enough.

_Angel. Do me._

Aziraphale morphs back into male, erection ready, willing, and able. Slides it in and collapses upon the demon's breasts as Crowley wraps her long legs around the angel's back, feet twisted together and toes curled.

They don't come to until the wee hours.


	38. Foot Massage

London. The bedroom in Crowley's Mayfair flat. Aziraphale and Crowley have been reminiscing about their last meeting atop the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden [Chapters 60 & 61 of _The Big One_], when they had discovered that angels and demons could touch one another without harm and Aziraphale had proceeded to massage the aching feet of Crawly's new human-like body. Things were just getting good when the pair were interrupted by incoming angels. They weren't able to meet again for a couple of millennia.

Aziraphale is seated on the edge of the bed, legs hanging over the side, as he and Crowley had sat atop the Eastern Gate wall.

_Crowley, let me massage your feet again._

The demon scoots around until he's lying at right angles to the angel, feet in Aziraphale's lap, as they had done 6 millennia past.

Aziraphale spends a long delicious time stroking and massaging Crowley's ankle muscles, rubbing his toes. The demon visibly relaxes into jelly. When Aziraphale begins to massage Crowley's insteps, the demon starts to moan softly, just as he did 6 millennia past. Only this time no incoming squadron of mighty angels interrupts him and Aziraphale.

_Ooooohh . . . Oooohhhh . . . Aziraphale, lie atop me._

The angel slides out from under Crowley's legs, runs his hands up the inside of Crowley's thighs and over his body, then holds himself lightly atop Crowley so their growing erections are paired. Crowley's twitches and spirals around Aziraphale's. Aziraphale lowers himself until his full weight is upon the demon.

_Shall I levitate a bit, Crowley? I'm not too heavy?_

Crowley clutches Aziraphale's back as a man falling off a cliff might clutch a handy tree.

_No! It makes me feel safe. Flare your wings._

Aziraphale's snowy wings open, then fold to form a sort of tent over him and Crowley. His hands caress the demon's velvety fade, his open mouth delivers a passionate kiss that Crowley reciprocates. Crowley moans with pleasure as the tidal wave of Divine Ecstasy rolls over them and carries them away for hours in their own little cocoon.


	39. Baked Potato and Butter

Follows Crowley's anxiety attack in Chapter 63 of _The Big One._

_Just trying to cheer you up, my dear. And now, let's slide that sweater off you._

Aziraphale slips his hands beneath the soft knit and pushes it off over Crowley's raised arms. Snaps his fingers to send his own clothing to the valet. Transforms to his delicious female form. Strokes Crowley's ribs, hugs him and kisses his chest, rubbing her headful of fluffy silky curls against the demon's armpit. Crowley's eyes glow orange.

_Warm me up, Crowley._

Crowley reaches out and gestures, and a fuzzy brown knit lace blanket appears draped over his arm.

_I got this for the flat bedroom. But it seems more needed here._

He drapes the deliciously soft fleece over the angel's back.

_What is this, Crowley? It's so light it almost floats. Mmmmm . . . and so warm._

_Qiviut. Musk ox fleece. Here, turn about and lie against me. _

Aziraphale repositions herself so she's reclining against Crowley's chest. He drapes the fleecy lace over her. She wiggles and cuddles up with her soft platinum curls tickling his shoulder and neck, pillowy bottom atop his lap.

_Mmm . . . My own personal hot water bottle._

_Doubtful a hot water bottle can do this . . ._

Warm demon hands caress her breasts and play with her rosy areolae. Aziraphale sighs with pleasure and her back arches as her plump nipples tighten. Crowley nuzzles her shoulder and neck. She wriggles her hips. Then raises her knees and opens her legs. She reaches down and lightly taps something with her fingertips.

_You're so long I can feel you nudging me._

_How do you get wet so fast, Angel? You're already almost dripping._

_Magic. _

The demon's firm sinuous hand massages her clitoris and explores her labia. Aziraphale smiles as she makes little moaning noises.

_Turn round again and lie back against the other pillow. I like to see you when you're all rosy and excited._

Aziraphale obliges, snuggling against the giant pillow, the brown fleece draped around her shoulders and down alongside her snowy body. Crowley regards her.

_You look like a buttered baked potato._

The two burst into laughter.

Crowley writhes around and glides forward between her legs, caresses her breasts. Aziraphale has already opened her thighs, one creamy leg draped over the back of the settee. Arches her back and closes her eyes as she feels Crowley's heated hand stroke her belly and then finger her rosy petals and plump cherry. The demon's eyes are glowing deep orange, his erection stiff as a pole.

_Ready, Angel?_

_Yes. Unnnnnhhhhhhhhh . . . Crowleyyyyyyy . . ._

Aziraphale's and Crowley's faces both go into St. Teresa mode as he slips himself inside, thrusting in counterpoint to her hip gyrations. She digs her fingers into his back as he collapses atop her breast. They climax together, waves of Divine Ecstasy pulsing through them. For hours.

* * *

Aziraphale is back in male mode. Crowley twitches his shoulders.

_Satan's sins, Angel, I think you left marks again._

_Turn around and let me see . . . Oh. . . . Oh dear. Yes. I did. _

Aziraphale runs a hand lightly over the red marks on Crowley's back.

_All better now?_

_Mm. Rub my back some more. That felt nice._

The angel tosses a giant pillow onto the carpet.

_Here. Lie down. I'll give you a massage._

Crowley hops off the settee, relaxes on his stomach atop the pillow. Aziraphale magics a small oil vial into his hand, pours a bit out atop Crowley' back, and begins his massage. Back, shoulders, ribs, lovely tight buttocks, thighs . . . up and down, up and down . . . runs and an oily hand down Crowley's crack and delicately fingers the demon's testicles.

_Roll over, I'll do your front._

Crowley flops himself over and sprawls atop the pillow, arms over his head and knees wide apart.

_Unnhhh . . . I feel boneless._

_Hm. We'll see about that._

Aziraphale massages Crowley's chest, enjoying the demon's nice pectorals, fondling his little nipples until they're hard as BB's. Strokes Crowley's flanks and belly and inner thighs, then begins to firmly caress and stroke his balls and penis. The demon's breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

_Angel . . ._

Aziraphale lies atop Crowley, pairing his own erection with Crowley's, and snuggles belly to belly against the demon's warm – and now slippery – body. Crowley sighs blissfully, snaps his fingers to have the qiviut blanket float atop them before they succumb to a long, slow Divine Ecstasy for the remainder of the night.


	40. Time After Time

Time After Time

[Begins with passage from _Angels and Demons_ chapter _at The Big One:_

Early evening twilight. Inside the Bentley, enroute to London. Cyndi Lauper's _Time After Time_ starts on Crowley's "Best of the 80s" playlist. Aziraphale is riveted.

_Would you play that song again, Crowley?_

Crowley puts it on replay.

_You know I never listened to be- . . . er, popular music. But I remember liking this simple little song very much._

Crowley turns and regards him steadily. Aziraphale glances nervously at the road ahead.

_Oh, don't worry. The Bentley is pretty will trained on this stretch. See?_

Crowley takes his hands from the wheel, and the car rolls steadily along in its lane, keeping a safe distance from the vehicle ahead. Demo accomplished, he places his hands back on the wheel and pretends to drive once again. Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes in his seat.

_Thank you, my dear. I'm still having difficulty adjusting to a self-driving car. _

_Well, it's not exactly self-driving like a Google car. It's me, not Waymo. _

_I'm not certain that's at all reassuring._

Crowley grins.

_So you liked Cyndi Lauper, eh?_

_I never knew the singer's name. _

_Funny you liked it. I always think of you when I hear it._

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment.

_I suspect I liked it for the same reason. Made me think of you. And it still does._

Crowley reaches an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder, pulls him across the gap between the two seats, runs his other hand through the angel's wooly hair as he kisses him firmly. The Bentley drives steadily along, without even a slight swerve.

* * *

London. The parking garage below Crowley's Mayfair flat. Aziraphale leans over. Putting an arm around Crowley's shoulder, he unbuttons the shearling collar of the demon's overcoat, loosens and removes his tie, unbuttons his shirt, pulls his undershirt loose, and caresses Crowley's bare chest. Crowley slumps back and sighs. Azirahale undoes the snake belt buckle, trouser button and zipper, extracts the demons giblets from his underwear and proceeds with a lovely, sloppy BJ. Crowley is off into Divine Ecstasy in short order. ]

* * *

Crowley exits the Bentley, zipping and buttoning various pieces of clothing as he goes around to the passenger door. Aziraphale is straightening his bowtie. Shrugs to re-adjust his overcoat after he gets out. Reaches into the back seat to retrieve Crowley's tie.

As they approach the stairwell door, Mrs. Allison steps out.

_Mr. Muffin! Mr. Muffin! Time to come home. Here, kitty kitty kitty . . ._

As usual, Mr. Muffin takes his sweet time to appear, leaving Mrs. Allison standing in the chilly concrete barn in her slippers and housecoat. Crowley glances up at the two disposable demons on the crossbeam. DeeDee makes a gesture. There's a sharp meow from a far corner, and Mr. Muffin comes racing to his owner.

_There you are, you naughty kitty! Good evening, Mr. Crowley, Mr. Fell. You've been partying, I see. _

_Can we assist you up the stairs, Mrs. Allison?_

_Thank you Mr. Fell. I think I will just take the little elevator. I know it's only one floor, but my knees, you know. Getting a bit creaky._

_I'll wait with you until the elevator comes. Crowley can go unlock our door._

The tiny elevator descends. Aziraphale holds the door open for Mrs. Allison, punches her floor button for her.

_There you go. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Allison._

_Likewise Mr. Fell. Thank you so much. Now, mind you don't let Mr. Crowley's nice tie trail in the dust._

* * *

Crowley is already in his dark silk dressing gown with the red lining. Snaps his fingers as Aziraphale enters, sending the angel's clothing off to the closet and robing him in his cuddlesome lavender flannel velvet-lined gown. Goes over to the liquor cabinet for two glasses.

_Shall we open a fresh bottle of Talisker?_

_Good idea, Crowley. I'm feeling a trifle chilly._

Crowley magics the duvet out of the bedroom closet and bundles it around Aziraphale as they sit together on the leather sofa. The angel opens one side of the duvet.

_Here, Crowley, sit closer to me. You're as warm as a stove._

Crowley puts an arm around the angel's shoulders. They clink glasses.

_Bollocks to Heaven._

_Bollocks to Hell._

Both grin and take a long sip. They sit companionably in silence while they work their way through their scotch.

Nightcaps finished, they go to the bedroom. Crowley sits at the foot of the bed, shrugs off his robe. Reaches his arms out to Aziraphale, who stands before him. Crowley tugs at the gold cord fastening the angel's gown to loosen it, slips his arms around Aziraphale and pulls him close. Nuzzles the angel's chest as he gently strokes Aziraphale's back.

_I love you, Angel._

Aziraphale runs his fingers over Crowley's velvety fade and through his quiff as he hugs the Demon's head and shoulders.

_Lie down, Angel. And tell me what you're in the mood for._

Aziraphale sheds his robe, semi-reclines against the giant pillows, assumes his female form, legs spread and knees up. The whites of Crowley's eyes take on a glowing orange tint as he kneels between the angel's legs and caresses her breasts. Aziraphale moans softly as the nipples in her rosy areolae become tight as red currants. Crowley shifts himself downward and kisses and tickles her soft belly with his remarkable tongue. Nuzzles her platinum bush, then licks and sucks at her clitoris until it's as plump as a ripe cherry. Aziraphale is breathing rapidly, eyes closed in bliss.

_Crowley._

The demon raises himself and works his erection into the angel, thrusts in rapid counterpoint to her hip movements. Deep inside at last, feels her powerful contractions, collapses with hands on her breasts as they both drift away upon the ocean of Divine Ecstasy.

* * *

Several hours later. The two roll apart.

_Mmmmmm. . . Crowley, that was wonderful._

The two relax for awhile, then Aziraphale murmurs:

_Let me do you._

Crowley looks at the angel, then reclines against the pillows, arms above his head, and morphs into snake demoness form.

_Oh, Crowley, you're so beautiful._

The angel gently strokes the demon's breasts and body with his cool, soft hands. Crowley smiles and sighs. Feet together and knees outstretched flat, she exposes her ruby labia and clitoris to Aziraphale's enthusiastic oral attention. The aroma of incense fills the air.

_Fill me, Aziraphale. Lie atop me._

Crowley moans and writhes, raising her long legs and wrapping them like an anaconda around the angel's back. Her clawed hands puncture the pillows. Aziraphale's eyes roll up under half-closed lids, his mouth open in ecstasy as he feels the demon's pulsing contractions. They roll in the waves of Divine Ecstasy until early dawn.

* * *

_Mmmmm. Angel. I feel like I'm under a cartload of ice cream. Stay atop me for awhile longer._

Crowley, once again male, caresses the angel's back and runs his hands through Aziraphale's woolly hair. After a long while he rolls the angel over, scoots down and lays his head against Aziraphale's soft belly, one warm hand atop the angel's now relaxed penis. And promptly falls asleep. Aziraphale gently strokes Crowley's hair. Closes his eyes, but doesn't sleep, simply enjoying the intimacy and presence of his beloved demon.


	41. New Sofa

London. Crowley's Mayfair flat. Crowley is excited about the just-delivered Michel Ducaroy sofa.

_Crowley, I love the color! Such a beautiful, rich red._

_And feel the fabric – it's called "Alcantara."_

_Feels like suede._

_Only better. You can read all about it on Wikipedia later. Let's try It out._

Exchanging a significant glance with one another, they plop themselves onto the sofa, snapping fingers to remove clothing, huddling companionably side by side and holding hands.

_I say, this feels wonderful. _

_Would you say "luxurious"?_

_Quite._

Crowley twists himself around to lie atop Aziraphale's chest, head on the angel's shoulder, one hand clutching a fuzzy pectoral muscle.

_Hold me, Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale hugs the demon, one hand stroking his velvety fade and running fingers through the quiff. Crowley sighs.

_Angel. You read the Celestial Observer, right?_

_Yes. That was quite the headline yesterday. I compared the coverage with your copy of Infernal Times. Both pieces were remarkably cagey about just who was responsible. _

_No one fingered me? _

_I think the reporters wanted to. Score one for Hell on the one side, versus blame demonic activity on the other. But instead, the Times directly blamed humans. And the Observer would only speculate about possible demonic activity._

_Hell got it right. The Heavenly Host just cannot get their heads around the possibility that they were outsmarted by humans. That Heaven was merely another organization targeted by human criminal hacker groups. _

_One of which you just happen to be the co-owner of._

_Crowley smiles sinfully._

_Yes. That is one side of our operations._

_And the other side?_

_Security against criminal hacking groups. _

_Crowley, you are so resolutely devious._

The demon nuzzles Aziraphale's neck.

_Mmmmmm. Thank you, Angel. I love it when you murmur sweet nothings._

Crowley tenses.

_That doesn't mean both sides aren't out to get me, of course. You know what you say about evil plans._

_That they always contain the seeds of their own destruction?_

_Yeah. Remember when I called you the night I had to deliver the baby Antichrist? Had to call you from Tadfield, using what was probably the last public phone booth within a hundred miles of London. Because I'd spent the evening disrupting the entire mobile phone system and couldn't call you from my car. _

_I never knew that, Crowley._

_Then there was the whole Odegra disaster. I worked so hard to get the London orbital motorway to be the literal representation of that dread sigil. Was so proud of myself. Christo has nothing on me. And then I got trapped by the burning circle of fire and destroyed the Bentley getting through. While virtuous you just flew over it on a fucking scooter._

_Yes. That was quite a neat miracle, wasn't it? Considering I was sharing a human body._

Crowley grins.

_On the bright side, I did discorporate Hastur by driving through the flames._

The demon's face once again lapses into anxiety.

_I'm scared, Aziraphale. Taking down Heaven's data system is a whole other level of enterprise. I expect to be hunted like a wet fox._

Crowley shudders and clutches harder at the angel's chest. Aziraphale places his hand over the demon's, gently pulls it away and locks fingers.

_Why did you do it, Crowley._

_I couldn't help it. Never expected to find such a fat pigeon sitting right out there in the open. Heaven was just begging for it._

_What ransom are you demanding?_

_We thought ten million pounds was a reasonable offer to restore the database. One pound per angel._

_Will you – what is the term – unencrypt the data if you're paid?_

_Course not. I'm a demon. We negotiate a slightly lower price, take the money, then completely fry the data. _

_Surely they're not such fools? _

_We're talking the Heavenly Host, angel. My money is on their taking the bait. Money means nothing to them. It would be irrational for them to not at least try to recover the data. _

_Point taken_

_Data deletion would only be from Heaven's system, of course. We have it backed up. What little I've seen so far seems likely to be very saleable piecemeal to Hell._

_I'm beginning to understand exactly why you're so worried._

Crowley shudders again.

_Kiss me, Angel. Tell me you love me. That you don't loathe me because I'm evil._

_Crowley, I love you _because_ you're evil. … Wicked. … Bad. … Naughty. … Definitely not nice._

Crowley grins as the angel gives him smooches between each word. Then a serious kiss develops. When they break apart, Crowley sighs:

_Lie atop me, Angel. _

They re-position themselves with Aziraphale on top.

Crowley clutches the angel hard enough to leave marks. His breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

_Crowley. Crowley. I'm here. Stop breathing._

Aziraphale's cool soft hand strokes the demon's face and hair. Crowley shudders, then slowly relaxes. His arms drop to his sides, and Aziraphale's arms enclose them.

_Mmmmm. Angel. You make me feel safe. You're so solid. … Cold. … Soothing._

Crowley rubs his lips against Aziraphale's wooly hair. Then gasps and surrenders to Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale places his open lips next to Crowley's as he slips away with him.

It's several hours before they come to and once again sit side by side. Crowley hasn't had enough. He flops himself over Aziraphale's lap.

_Pet me, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale smiles as he strokes the demon's back, buttocks, and thighs. If Crowley were a cat, he'd be purring. Instead he wiggles and makes happy little hissing noises. Squirms around a bit until his erection and balls are atop Aziraphale's, spreads his legs so the angel can tickle his crack and scrotum. Every time they do this, the angel contemplates how before Armageddon he would have reacted in scandalized horror to the very thought of such behavior.

_I say, Crowley, did you know that some human males shave their balls?_

_Nothing humans do would surprise me. _

_I suppose they do it for the same reason they get rid of other body hair. Worried about how they smell. I can understand their concern. The 18__th__ century was particularly intense. Infrequent bathing and gallons of perfume. Whoof._

_Aziraphale, are you hinting to me that I smell?_

The angel bursts into laughter.

_Good heavens, no. I just like to tickle that little fuzz you sport. And I've told you at least a hundred times that I like the way you smell. Stop fishing for compliments, foul fiend._

Crowley slithers around so he's straddling Aziraphale's legs, hanging downward off the edge of the couch. Body hair turns into a delicate rose gold fluff, ass like a satiny melon beneath the angel's hands, upturned to reveal rosy wet labia. The aroma of frankincense wafts through the air. Ruby claws on talon-like hands dig into the carpet.

_Do me, Aziraphale._

The angel barely has time to lean his head back against the couch, face in St. Teresa in Ecstasy mode as Crowley's fierce contractions massage him. Their tableau once again lasts several hours.

* * *

Early morning. Crowley returns from the little refrigerator under the liquor cabinet with a bottle of Cristal and two flutes. Hands Aziraphale his glass, pours a full measure of champagne, does likewise for himself. Plops down next to Aziraphale and assumes his Barberini Faun pose, only with a champagne flute in one hand and the other arm around the angel's shoulders.

_Feeling better, Crowley?_

_Oh yes. Maybe a little snack when we finish the bottle. Toast?_

_To the world!_

They clink glasses.

It doesn't take long for the bottle to be emptied. Both send their magically cleaned glasses back to the cabinet, the bottle to the glass recycling bin. Crowley writhes around and strokes Aziraphale's fuzzy chest, tweaking his nipples.

_Your kendo workouts are showing._

_You mean I'm not as pear-shaped?_

_Oh no. You're still built like a pear. It's one of your most attractive features. _

Crowley caresses the angel's belly.

_Mmm. Luxurious built-in upholstery. _

He embraces the angel and nuzzles his neck.

_So comforting._

The demon glides down Aziraphale's front until his face is in the angel's lap.

_Now for my little breakfast snack._

Warm supple fingers and a remarkable tongue soon have Aziraphale off into divine ecstasy. Crowley delights in keeping him aloft for nearly two hours.


	42. Mr Whippy and Crouching Tiger

London. The living room of Crowley's flat in Mayfair. Aziraphale, clad in his cushy lavender tartan dressing gown, is seated on the couch, reading. Crowley is lying on his back upon the carpet, feet atop a pillow on the couch. He's been asleep for over an hour, having drifted off while Aziraphale gave him a foot massage. His eyelids open. Golden eyes become alert.

_Whoof._

_Feeling better, my dear?_

_Oh yes. I shall be forever grateful to the internet for showing you how to do such a sinfully pleasurable massage as that. _

_I have a little surprise for you in the bedroom. Shall we adjourn there?_

Aziraphale rises from the couch, extends a hand to help Crowley up. The demon embraces him and they indulge in a long, thorough kiss. Then amble arm in arm to the bedroom. While Crowley plumps up the giant pillows, Aziraphale magics a silver tray with two cut crystal glasses and a graceful oval bottle of golden liquor inscribed with a pair of angelic wings. He places the tray on the bedside table on Crowley's side, then climbs aboard and settles comfortably next to the demon.

_It's a rye whiskey from America. "Angel's Envy."_

_Well! What a nice present, Angel. Let's try some right now._

_I was hoping you'd say that._

The bottle is uncorked and a suitable amount poured for each. They clink glasses.

_Bollocks to Heaven._

_Bollocks to Hell._

They sit and sip thoughtfully for some time.

_Mmmm. Angel, I think I'll have this for dessert from now on. Extraordinary._

_It's the complete opposite end of the spectrum from scotch, isn't it? None of that hairy-chested peat and iodine flavor._

_Would you say, "scrumptious?"_

_I would indeed. As you well know._

Crowley smiles snakily. They sit companionably while they finish their whiskey. Then, empty glasses safely placed back on the tray, they scootch down on their sides and regard one another. Aziraphale magics off his robe, but Crowley magics it back on. Tugs on the tasseled cincture.

_I like to pull on that golden cord. It's like opening a present._

Then the robes are magicked off to the closet. Aziraphale reaches over and strokes Crowley's chest hair and nipples.

_You know, Crowley, your body hair is so much silkier and fluffier than mine. And one would think you'd have hardly any._

_My being a snake and all?_

_Well, yes. I can see why I have a chest full of curly hair. Seeing as how I'm a ram when I'm dressed up. But one might expect you to be almost hairless. _

_Good thing I'm not. Keep doing that tickling, Angel, it feels good._

_How about this?_

Aziraphale leans over and plants kisses along Crowley's neck, shoulders, chest. Strokes his lower belly hair towards his navel. Nuzzles and sucks at the demon's nipples, causing him to sigh with pleasure.

_You do have such a sensitive front, Crowley._

_Crawling along on one's belly has some advantages._

Crowley reaches down and works his hand around the angels balls, pulling his giblets closer.

_Guessing the snake inheritance accounts for this, too. Humans can't do it._

The demon shifts a bit closer, lets his penis do a long spiral around the angel's erection. He strokes Aziraphale's stomach.

_Now lay that lovely soft belly on me, Angel._

Aziraphale obliges and rolls over so he's mostly atop the demon. Crowley caresses and tickles the angel's soft backside.

_Mmmm. How I love pears. . ._

The demon wriggles his hips and gasps as his back arches and he goes into Divine Ecstasy. Aziraphale lays his head on Crowley's shoulder. Then sighs as he releases as well. They don't pull apart until hours later.

* * *

_Mmmm. That was a nice aperitif, Angel. Any chance you'd like to be a woman for the next bout?_

_Certainly, Crowley. I love feeling you inside me. You're so warm and long._

_A frankfurter inside a delicious bun, eh? _

_Tch. Really, my dear._

_Here, sit in my lap._

Crowley caresses her breasts and tweaks her nipples as Aziraphale sighs and arches her back. Opens her generous thighs to accommodate a warm demonic hand exploring moist labia. Supple fingers have learned just what massage spots she likes, and her clitoris is soon as plump as a cherry.

_Crowley. Please._

Aziraphale rolls off the demon's lap onto her stomach, backside raised. Crowley kneels between her thighs, eyes taking on a glowing orange tinge as he lovingly caresses pillowy white buttocks. Works his pole of an erection inside. Both of their expressions morph into St. Teresa in Ecstasy as Aziraphale's contractions send them off together. Their tableau lasts for hours.

* * *

_That was lovely, Angel. You always make me feel as if I'm fucking ice cream. So soft and cold. Mmmm. . ._

_So I go from a bun for a frankfurter to a Mr. Whippy, do I? We'll never be able to visit a refreshment stand again._

Crowley laughs.

_Let's have another glass of whiskey, Aziraphale. Then you can do me. _

Generous drams are poured. They sip and sit hand in hand in blissful relaxation. When the empty glasses are once again on the tray, Crowley purrs:

_That should be enough to take the edge off Ms. Demon. I always worry that I'll lose control and hurt you._

He morphs into his scary Snake Demoness. Stretches like a cat, clawed hands raised above his shoulders. Desert viper eyes fix Aziraphale in a snaky stare, as if the angel is a tasty mouse hypnotized in terror.

_Pet me, Angel._

Aziraphale moves slowly and gently strokes her arms, neck, shoulders, breasts.

_Mmmm. I like feeling your cold hands on my nipples. Do that some more._

Demonic nipples nicely tightened, Aziraphale's cool soft caresses tickle her belly, then gently pulls tufts of her silky russet pubic hair. Slowly, Crowley opens her knees and lets the angel massage her. She arches her back and hisses softly, thick forked tongue flicking over her lips and nostrils. Rolls over and raises her backside. Sharp ruby claws on outstretched talon-like hands slice into the pillow. Aziraphale doesn't waste time, carefully inserts himself as deep as he can go. Keeps a tight grip on her hips as her writhing and contractions pull orgasms from him by the yard. Crowley's toes turn up. More hours pass.

* * *

Once again both male, they lie side by side and regard one another. Aziraphale looks down at himself.

_Oof. Crowley. I always feel as if I ought to be a few inches longer after one of these sessions. You really have quite a grip. And you twist about so._

_I love those animal groans you emit. Very stimulating. To my predatory instincts, I surmise. _

_I suppose I should be thankful you didn't say "grunts."_

_Well, they're more like moans. Of pleasure, I hope._

_Oh yes._

Aziraphale shivers at the remembrance. Crowley lays a warm hand on the angel's penis.

_Shall I kiss it and make it better?_

Before Aziraphale can reply, the demon has snaked around and down and is using his remarkable tongue in all the right places.

_Mmmm . . . a tequila lolly._

_Dammit, Crowley._

Aziraphale slumps back against the pillow, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Crowley keeps him aloft for over an hour.

And then it's dawn.


	43. The Magic Words

Tadfield. Late evening in the bookshop. Crowley and Aziraphale have ended their conversation in "The Fixer" chapter of The Big One.

_. . . Kiss me, Angel._

A long, thorough kiss.

_Mmmm. Crowley, you taste of whisky even when you haven't been drinking._

_I've probably drunk enough since humans invented the stuff to be at least 40 proof myself. _

Gives Aziraphale a smooch.

_You taste of cocoa, by the way. There was some left on your lip._

Places his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders and proceeds to kiss the angel's neck, shoulders, chest. Aziraphale relaxes into goo as Crowley nuzzles his fuzzy chest hair, tickles the angel's nipples with his sensuous tongue until they're hard as leather.

Crowley rolls and falls onto his back on the big pillow.

_Angel, would you rub my feet?_

Azirphale smiles. Repositions himself to a kneeling position, hoists Crowley's feet onto his lap, proceeds to massage the demon's toes and insteps. Crowley gently writhes and sighs with pleasure.

_I can't tell you how much I love having feet. _

_A hard-won luxury?_

_Uh-huh. You know I was a heavenly body with just a face, six wings, and a tail . . . then a burned-out serpent in Hell . . . took me a long while to get the complete kit._

_They're very long, graceful feet. I love stroking them._

Aziraphale leans forward and works his way slowly upward as he massages Crowley's arches, ankles, legs and thighs.

_And your lovely long legs._

Aziraphale repositions himself to straddle Crowley's hips. Crowley leans forward, caresses the angel's backside.

_Such a delicious backside, Angel. Mmmm . . . Cold and soft as ice cream . . ._

Crowley grasps the angel's buttocks and spreads them to enclose his growing erection like buns around a hot dog. Gently pulls Aziraphale's balls free, cupping them in one hand as his supple, warm fingers firmly massage the angel's erection in all the places he likes best. Cold hands grasp his wrists.

_Crowley. _

Aziraphale's eyes are closed and his mouth slightly open, mere moments away from Divine Ecstasy. Crowley isn't quite there yet, however. Nonetheless, he runs an index finger around the tip of the angel's penis, rubbing that one special spot in just the right way. Aziraphale gasps, slides his hands over Crowley's chest , buries his face atop the demon's shoulder as he collapses and floats away in Divine Ecstasy. Hugging Crowley tightly, he whispers into his ear:

_Oh Crowley. I love you so._

And that sends Crowley into the slipstream of Divine Ecstasy right along with his beloved angel. The Magic Words.


	44. Foreplay

London. Crowley's Mayfair flat. Crowley and Aziraphale come through the entry, magic their overcoats off into the closet. A smug smile flits across Aziraphale's face.

_Frivolous miracles never grow old for you, do they, Angel?_

_The more the merrier, I say. _

_You should send a week's spreadsheet to Michael some time._

Aziraphale grimaces and shudders as if he's just tasted an especially nasty pickled something or other. Turns toward their couch in the lounge, but Crowley puts an arm around his waist and escorts him to the bedroom instead. Understanding why Crowley has been exceptionally clingy of late, Aziraphale doesn't object. Before they can magic into their dressing gowns, Crowley seats Aziraphale at the base of the bed.

_Let me undress you. It's like slowly opening a delightful present._

Crowley snaps his fingers, his clothes transform into his dark silk dressing gown with the deep red lining and the snake pattern that seems to writhe as the fabric drapes and moves. Genuflects to unlace Aziraphale's boots. Slips his hands up the angel's trouser legs to loosen and remove garters and stockings. Rises and sits on the edge of the bed, loosens and removes the gold velvet bow tie and gold winged cufflinks. Slips Aziraphale's jacket off his shoulders and arms. Slides his hands under the Fair Isle sweater and pulls it over the angel's head. Slips the braces off Aziraphale's shoulders. Unbuttons the angel's shirt.

_Mmm. Stand up, Angel._

Aziraphale obliges. Crowley unbuttons the angel's trouser fly. Runs his hands over Aziraphale's wooly chest before sliding off the braces, shirt, silk boxers, and trousers to join the rest of the ensemble in the closet. Sits Aziraphale down again, kneels and gently pries apart the angel's habitually-closed thighs, lays his head against Aziraphale's giblets, arms around the angel's hips. Aziraphale feels as if a hot water bottle has been placed in his lap. He puts one soft cold hand upon Crowley's shoulder, pets and strokes the demon's hair with the other.

After a moment, Crowley rises and sits alongside Aziraphale.

_Remember when we sat together sunning ourselves on the wall above the Eastern Gate?_

The demon plucks at the angel's platinum pubic hair.

_First time I got to see your beautiful welcome mat. _

Crowley has pulled out a few hairs. Holding them up in one hand, into the other hand he magics a small glass bottle about half-filled with platinum fuzz. Floats the stopper off, places the hairs inside, re-stoppers the vial and magics it back into storage.

_Crowley! What on earth are you doing?_

_Saving your pubic hairs. S'always seemed somehow sacrilegious to just torch them. You being holy and all. And they're so pretty. Like spun silver._

_Souvenirs of good times?_

_Relics, you might say._

_Crowley, you are such a delightful ass._

Aziraphale has fallen back onto the bed, his plump belly shaking with laughter. He can't stop. Laughs until he starts to gasp. Draws up his knees, rolls onto his side further up the bed. Bursts into laughter again. Laughs . . . and laughs. . . Rolls onto his back again. Laughs . . . and laughs . . . and laughs. . .

Crowley has lain down upon his side, resting on a cocked elbow with head in hand as he regards this spectacle. Never has he witnessed Aziraphale laugh uncontrollably. Normally the angel merely chuckles, or gives a short laugh and then stops as if worried someone might see him having fun.

_Ooof . . . Getting a cramp._

Deep gasps. A final giggle as Crowley's warm hand caresses the soft pillow of Aziraphale's stomach. The angel turns his head toward Crowley. A broad smile is spread across the demon's face, golden snake eyes half-closed in benign amusement.

_Feeling better?_

_Oh yes. Thank you. I needed that. _

Aziraphale take a deep breath and hiccups to derail an oncoming giggle. Turns his face upward and closes his eyes as he smiles even more broadly than Crowley. The demon continues to caress the angel's chest as he speaks.

_Remember our first night together in this bed?_

_I shall never forget it, Crowley. You feel asleep. I sat at the foot and drank scotch. Flared my wings and did basic guarding._

_Not that night, you idiot. The night we discovered Divine Ecstasy._

_Well. Of course I shall never forget that, either._

_I was so nervous. The night before, when I fell asleep, I was exhausted. _

_Indeed. That run-up to Armageddon was no picnic. _

_And stopping time really takes it out of you. I remember you kissing me on the forehead, though, as I was just dropping off._

_Oh. I thought you were already asleep._

_Nope. Next night, though, I was desperate to be close to you. Was so afraid you'd trundle off to your bookshop and I'd be left to myself, alone again. Never really got over that ache of loneliness when you disappeared from the wall. What got me through the next 6000 years was running into you as often as possible. _

Crowley smiles dreamily.

_The Arrangement was magic. Both of us finally figuring out how to avoid doing whatever it was we were supposed to be doing._

_Incompetence squared._

Crowley regards him.

_I'm not so sure about that. Did you ever really want to be a _competent_ angel?_

_Well ye- . . ._

Aziraphale starts to reply, then pauses and thinks for a long moment.

_Actually, what I longed for was to be treated as if I were competent. Not a total fool. But I always somehow failed to behave in the approved manner._

_Because, in fact, you're not a fool at all. _

_And you're far more powerful than you let on. Stopping time isn't an ordinary angel's party trick._

Crowley is silent for a while. Then he shivers.

_I was terrified that if I touched you intimately, you'd get indignant and reject me. Had to buck myself up by pretending I was performing a Temptation. _

_So that's why you flung yourself atop me so violently?_

_Yep. _

_Well your Temptation sensor wasn't wrong. I'd never felt so chuffed as after that hug you gave me at the end of our picnic. And when you leaped on top of me in bed that night, I felt as if every atom of fear drained away in a flood. And then, of course . . ._

_Was that ever a surprise, eh?_

The both gaze downward at their growing erections.

_My word, yes. I never even thought that we could do that._

_I did. After watching Adam and Eve. But nothing ever happened for me. So I gave up trying. Figured celestial bodies just didn't work the same. Although thinking of you did give me a nice twitch every now and again._

Aziraphale looks shifty. Then admits:

_Me, too. But of course we would have been extinguished had we let things go further._

_Yep. Total extinction is a definite boner-killer._

They turn heads and regard one another.

This time Aziraphale rolls atop Crowley, thrusting has hands through the demon's hair as he violently kisses him. Crowley reciprocates the kiss. Several seconds later, the demon's knees raise and his toes curl up. Aziraphale buries his ecstatic face atop Crowley's shoulder. They levitate a few inches.

No waiting on Divine Ecstasy this time, either.

* * *

First time was in the short story at the beginning of this series, _You Can Stay at My Place if You Like._


End file.
